Metanoia
by Shingie
Summary: How do you convince a sociopath to find value in love and ultimately, people? A story of self-discovery and finding the better side of life. With emo brooding, rhetorical questions, masks and mistaken identities--plenty of cliches to go around! TRxOC :D
1. Gone to Meet His Maker

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, nor I do claim to be the original creator/writer of the series. All the characters you recognize belong to JK Rowling exclusively. I am not writing for profit, so this story is completely free to read & definitely not up for sale/profit. Plot inspired by danceswpenguins9 & her fanfic _Crazy_ -- hers is excellent & the original, go read it sometime. _She has already voiced permission for me to use the basic plotline._

**Warning:** Contains mild language (no f-word), and may cover some more themes which may be discomforting to some readers -- such as death, after-death (or after-life, however you look at it), suicide, some religious references, some sexual content.

* * *

The strangest thing happened to me. I just woke up one day, and like a speeding truck…BAM! it hit me in the face hard. I think I must have died and instead of going to heaven (which I don't think I would've gone anyway), I'm stuck here. I can't believe I'm sitting here by firelight writing this. This is stupid. Just stupid.

Did I tell you how hard it is to write with a quill? The feather keeps tickling my nostrils. And it smells like bird poop too. Those poor, balding birds. I wonder how people would like it if birds plucked hairs from our heads and used them for pens.

Yeah…I should start from the beginning, shouldn't I?

It was a normal day. Normal sunny weather, a normal boring Thursday—the worst day of all, because you're almost done with the week but nope, there's still one more day to you got to put up with. I was rereading_ The Half Blood Prince_ in the school library, when out of nowhere, Nikki popped in and said, "You still read _that_?!"

I looked up. Irritation ebbed at my sides. First, I did not appreciate being kidnapped back into reality without warning. Second, Nikki's supposed to be my friend, what's up her buzz if I read Harry Potter? She had her fair share of embarrassing hobbies too.

"Yeah, so what?"

"That's kid stuff—Move on already, Jean! You should read this."

She picked up a copy of _Twilight_. Our dingy, gum-littered high school suffered from the Twilight fever, while the Harry Potter craze died tragically like the headless cockroach underneath my bed last week.

"No, I'm fine."

"No really, you should! Edward's so hot!"

I watched Nikki's eyes grow hazy as she drifted in a momentary daydream. I was glad that I couldn't read minds; some things are better left unseen.

"Anyway," she continued, "There's going to be an assembly soon. You should go!"

"Uh, no thanks," I said. Being squished in the bleachers getting my ears blasted to death watching slutty cheerleaders flash their legs, or remain in the peaceful sanctuary (namely, the library) reading a terrific book? My nerd-bookworm side squealed at me to maintain my antisocial profile.

She grinned. "Oh, but what about Zachary?"

"Haha, funny. No, I'm fine. I insist," I replied, wishing this chick would leave me alone already. "I like revisiting my childhood memories."

"You are such a dork." Nikki laughed as she (finally) headed out the doorway. "See ya later then."

"Bye."

I resettled back into the cushioned chair. Even though our school library is pretty tiny and poorly kept, any library is the only escape route from my crappy life. The rows and rows of bookshelves just always seemed to say, _Come Jean, come lean against me, take a book, and just relax. Forget about your worries, and just read._

I peered around the room. The typical scene you'd expect. Some were cramming for a test or trying to finish their homework. Some jammed on their Ipods or fiddled with their cell phones. And some, like me, were lost in the splendor of a good book. I stole a peek at the clock and let out a sigh. Lunch was going to be over soon. Almost instinctively, I snapped the book shut and stood up to make my over my next class.

Yup, that was my life. Ruled by fifty-five minute intervals, marked by the bells that rang out to control the masses of mindless teenagers. Five days a week, seven hours a day. I could practically feel my soul withering away as I numbingly followed this painfully repetitive routine. Life zipped by me, and I was just sitting there rotting watching it go by like a movie. Just shut your mouth, keep the bitching to a minimum, and listen to whatever your parents, your teachers, and whatever stupid rules society invents.

But then that metaphorical truck just hits me like a wake-up call, shattering my mind into tiny fragments. By then my brain had already atrophied enough it didn't even register the pain; when I realized was was happening, it was too late. So now, I'm wandering without direction in this parallel universe, as if I've crossed over to the other side of the mirror. I'm technically dead, but I've never felt so alive. Isn't that weird?

* * *

"Hey Mom, I'm home," I called out absentmindedly as I stepped through the doorway of my humble abode. Much to my surprise, both I found both Mom and Dad sitting on the couch, giving me that uber serious look parents like to give you, which is even scarier than if they had said _We need to have a long, serious discussion, missy_. Let me tell you something about my mom and dad. Their brains function methodically off three factors: strict logic, mathematics, and profit. They'd never sit simultaneously on the same piece of furniture just to greet me home from school.

Next thing I remembered is that I found myself in a field of pansies, wandering a vast open field of grass. The wind whispered gently, caressing my cheeks. The grass bowed back and forth. This place was serene, but its stillness sent shivers down my spine.

_Am I dead_, I asked myself, _or was this some dream?_

A fluffy white cloud hung so low I could have reached up to touch it effortlessly. I inhaled swiftly. How high was this place anyway? Was there even air up here?

"Greetings, Jean."

_Woah, that was random_. I directed my attention to the direction of the voice that knew my name. An old man sat on the left end on a regular-looking park bench. He wore a star-glittering purple robe (actually, more like a dress...) and a pointy hat to accompany this lol-worthy attire. A silky silver beard surrounded his wrinkled but kind face. But what stood out most of all besides all that purple were his piercing blue eyes, framed by half moon spectacles. I noticed his long, crooked nose as he smiled.

He was exactly how I pictured him in my head. You'd be creeped out too, if you found yourself face to face with a fictional character in a book.

"Who are you?" I asked stupidly, although I knew perfectly well.

"I think that, you should ask yourself first before you ask me." He chucked lightheartedly.

I stood there, hoping this figment of my imagination would just disappear if I stared at it hard enough.

"Come, come. Sit with me. I ache for good company, and I am sure you have worn yourself out from aimlessly wandering these green pastures." He smiled, eyes twinkling as he gestured to the unoccupied end of the bench.

Like some speech-impaired idiot, I hesitantly strolled over and sat. Finally I managed to blurt out, "Dumbledore?"

"Precisely, my dear."

_My god_, I thought to myself, _I've been reading Harry Potter way too much_. My whole body tensed up, and my fingers fidgeted like crazy. Dumbledore, on the other hand, seemed completely at peace and even started _humming_. Despite his lax attitude I knew Dumbledore meant business—whatever was going to come out his mouth was going to be some heavyweight stuff. I had a dreaded feeling this was going to turn out like my parent's nagging lectures. So I sat there in silence. In the still air. On the park bench. Next to this humming purple dress.

It was then I noticed the view. When I focused my eyes forward, my brain won the 2008 Olympics in Gymnastics for the extreme back flips it spontaneously performed. The bench, edged on the side of a rocky cliff, overlooked a magnificent view of greenery and a lake that reflected the clear blue sky. A medieval castle hid protected behind a massive dark forest. It was hard to say which was more mind boggling—the gorgeous scenery or the intimidating elevation. Questions jumped from the bottom of my throat like a hungry frog, eagerly anticipating their freedom.

"Am I dead or something? How did I get here? What I am doing here? Where is this place? Why—"

He raised a wizened hand to stop the nonsensical babble.

"Look," Dumbledore pointed below. "What do you see?"

"Green hills. A forest. A lake, a castle… Oh, is that Hogwarts?"

"Correct."

Slightly afraid to find out the answer, I heard myself asking, "What is this place?"

"Take a guess." He smiled as if I knew the answer already, which kind of pissed me off, because honestly I had no freaking clue.

Irritated by Dumbledore's lack of response, I said, "Some region of my mind, in my imagination where I'm meeting up with a fictional character I've been reading too much about."

"Not quite," he said, half-smiling, "This cliff, as it were, is a rendezvous between beings of the various societies—including my world and yours. Alive and the dead, real and the unreal, mind and body collide here before traveling on to the next world."

"That's what I—never mind. So am I dead, then?"

"Are you?"

A silver bullet whizzed through my unsuspecting heart. It all came back in a flash; the sensations were all too real. Swallowing tablet after tablet, clutching the empty container that once held them as my body convulsed in agony, then the dark nothingness that engulfed everything else. My stomach shuddered with a familiar pain.

"Oh," I whispered, not wanting to believe it myself.

"Jean," Dumbledore said quite seriously, "I am not here to badger you like your parents, for your decision to take matters in your own hands has been already carried out; it is too late. But I will say this. You had potential. Why did you give up?"

I didn't know what to say. It's not that I didn't know the answer, but the answer was deep, deep inside me. I just was afraid to look for it because I was scared as to what I might find. I didn't know the words to describe the stupidity which spurned the moment that ended my life. It was one of those things were you knew the answer, but you wanted to turn a blind eye and forget its existence. It was like a bad test grade; all you wanted was to shove that damn paper to the back of your dresser and forget all about it, but it'd always come back to bite you in the butt when Mom wanted to know how you did on that test.

"You had potential," he pressed on, probing further. "You could have figured it out. Found a solution. But you gave up. Took the easy way out."

That did it. His words were blunt, but I felt the stab. I closed my eyes. This was all too much. I had always been so careful to hide my greatest weaknesses in the dark like it was some embarrassing deformity, pretending it didn't exist. But here, Dumbledore somehow knew specifically where to jab to inflict the greatest pain, with the precision and efficiency of an acupuncturist locating a pressure point. He was bringing it to the light, and exposing it for everybody to see. How could he know? How could he know me better than I knew myself?

"I don't want to hear it." The voice sounded childish.

Then I did a very stupid thing. I cried. Although the scenery was beautiful and the air was serene, the pent-up emotions caused a volcanic eruption of hot tears that dribbled down my nose and cheeks. Even worse, Dumbledore made no attempt to neither soothe nor comfort, but started humming again and picking at his ears and acting like everything was fine and dandy. So I cried and cried for help for any ounce of sympathy, but he just kept humming and humming. I'd never felt so alone.

"Oh, this is interesting. Lime earwax."

Angry that he could be so cheerful when I was crying my eyes out, I blubbered, "I'm—I'm not worthy of life. You don't know w-what it's like"—I gasped for air—"to live a life without meaning."

What a loser, huh? Feeling more and more pathetic by the minute, my own self pity thrived off one another, multiplying like a dangerous virus until all I could do was soak in a pathetic puddle of my own lameness.

Dumbledore stopped humming.

"They never cared for me. Never asked what kind of future what I might've wanted while they formulated their own plans. I was a long-term investment, I wasn't even their daughter."

"Your parents only wanted the best for you, couldn't you have understood that?" he regarded me evenly.

"They sure didn't show it," I snapped right back.

"You never said you were suffering. How were they to know?"

Damn it, why was he always right? Those intelligent blue eyes of his could see through your soul.

"You were the one who closed yourself up," said the bearded wizard quietly as he gazed at the castle. "You were the one who built the mental barrier. Afraid to try, afraid to care."

Everything turned to face me fully. All this time, I'd shifted the blame to somebody else—my parents, my friends, my school for my dwindling life. The process was gradual, but looking back, it was so painfully obvious. Choosing to be alone rather than with friends, choosing to submission over rebellion... how did these simple, everyday choices bleed the life out of me? How could I have not realized what I was doing to myself? Dumbledore just made me sink lower in the murky puddle of depression.

When I thought I would drown in my own patheticalness, he said something that would forever change my life.

"Do not soak in your self-pity," he murmured, "for often, one's problems are pale in comparison to others."

I don't know if you've ever been struck by a realization so strong it reversed your perspective entirely, but that moment everything in my life flipped backwards. Have you ever looked deeply into a person and realized they too are a human being, with struggles of their own? I took a good look at Dumbledore. A deepened hardship clouded his brilliant blue eyes, and his face had been scarred with deepened lines. His right hand was blackened, burned, and shriveled.

All this time I had been so self absorbed in my own little world, pitying myself because I thought I was the only one who suffered, and now I looked at Dumbledore to realize he, too, had his own problems as well. My own depression turned to shame, and morphed to a stubborn determination. I made myself a promise that moment: never again would I allow this self pity to rule my life, never again would I depend on it to live.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, truly feeling remorse.

"No," Dumbledore quickly returned to his old cheery self, and I wondered if his sad expression in the first place was imagined. "The past is the past. It won't do any good now to waste your life away now, brooding over your mistakes. Even the greatest of men are not infallible to sin. It is with each mistake there is an opportunity for redemption—a hope that one day we can act to make up our deepest regrets. I am here, Jean, not to nag or berate, but to offer you a chance to provide an opportunity to learn from your mistakes.

"Confront again your greatest fears and doubts. Confront your strengths and weakness, and find the inner balance between the two. Realize this: I cannot make decisions for you, because ultimately it is only you who is in control of the choices which shape your life. You must rely on yourself to formulate your own questions, to define your own answers. Step out of the threshold—answer the call to adventure. Will you reply to it?"

"Yes." It was as if I had reached enlightenment or something—I felt like a completely different person. I was older. Stronger. Wiser.

"Excellent," Dumbledore beamed. "You are familiar with the young man called Tom Riddle, I hope?"

Dumbledore wasn't called eccentric for a reason. "Isn't he the kid who became Voldemort?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. The boy who would grow up to one of the most feared wizards of all time, and most wizards consider him the most evil being of all time. Upon closer examination Tom was a tragedy in its most heartbreaking form. Born with a brilliant mind and great potential (like you), he was exposed to the dark side and took an unhealthy liking to it. But the more he experimented with the dark arts, the less human he became. He grew obsessed with the power evil promised; it consumed him until his tragic downfall. Tom Riddle died, never seeing the other side of life."

The way he spoke, in such passionate tones, I swear Dumbledore must have had some man-crush on him. Or he was a hopeless romantic desperately seeking to find the best in people, making it up if it was necessary. It pissed me off that Dumbledore could show more sympathy for Lord Voldemort than he did for me.

"What are you saying?" I could hardly believe my ears. "How the hell is he a tragedy? He killed people! He took a sick pleasure in it too. And not once was he sorry for what he did."

"Do you believe everybody is born with a conscience? Does everybody have the potential to be good? Can a man born evil be changed?"

I hated how when I had a question, he would change the subject by asking more questions. He never answered my own questions, but brought up another question and expected me to answer it when he never answered mine.

"Murder is murder." I was determined not to stray from the subject. "You can't make excuses for his crimes. That's... that's like saying, 'oh, so-and-so murdered tons of innocent children, but he had a mental disorder so it wasn't his fault. Let's just let him slide.'"

"Are mental disorders caused by one's nature or nurture?"

I could see where this was going. Talking with Dumbledore was like talking to yourself. You never get anything accomplished because when you try to explore the components your mind, you end up finding new questions without answering your original question. When you've given up in vain, and everything goes back to the original problem, you realize you really don't know anything at all.

"A bit of both, I would say."

"Well," Dumbledore chuckled, "Nobody has control of their genetics or the environmental influences which occur in their lives. Would you say Tom had control over his state of mind?"

"He still made the choices out of his own free will," I retorted.

"If our personality controls the choices we make, and personality is shaped by these two factors of nature and nurture we cannot control, can you still say one has control over their choices?"

I was beat. Dumbledore clearly enjoyed provoking young minds and confusing their beliefs for a living. Probably all he did all day was sit at this park bench, overlook the wizarding society from above like God or something, and think up rhetorical questions which have absolutely no answers, and prey on unsuspecting minds unfortunate enough to wander in his midst.

Still irritated, I changed the subject. "What do you want me to do?"

"Become the figure in Tom Riddle's life, the influence who will guide him out of the dark and reverse the human tragedy. You will not only give Tom Riddle a second chance at life, but yourself as well."

A second chance at life? The words wouldn't register. "I don't get it."

"Simple," Dumbledore said, growing impatient as if the answer was obvious. "Find out what caused Tom Riddle to turn the wrong direction in life and fix it."

Well, that was basically full of nothing.

"The wrong direction," I muttered, "He did live in a crappy orphanage, so I guess that must've did something to his head. But what I am supposed to do? Save Riddle's mother from dying when she gives birth to her bastard child? I'm only fifteen, and clearly equipped with medical knowledge to deliver a baby."

"The answers are right in front of you." Dumbledore almost laughed, and I hated that he seemed for thrive off my confusion. "They always have been. Then, and even now. There is always an answer, Jean. Just because you can't find it at the moment does'nt mean you should take the easy route out."

He smiled lightly and winked. He made me feel stupid and foolish.

"And if I fail?"

"This kind of thinking, dear, leads to failure."

"But this isn't even real. Why should I put my efforts into something that isn't—for Chrissakes, this is a fictional series some bored single mother wrote up, this isn't real. You aren't even real. Don't bullshit me." I glared at him.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled good-humoredly as if he was expecting this very question.

"What you must come to understand, Jean, is that the boundaries between life and death, between the real and unreal, between the known and the unknown are not separate entities but they exist as a whole. These boundaries are created by man's mind out of a desire to remain ignorant, to shun what he fears to understand."

"That's absurd," I protested feebly.

"All aspects of life and mind coexist peacefully; they mold into one another to create a full circle. Man can only accept life in parts, so as a result there is a creation of what you call 'real' verses 'fictional'. This is what limits our understanding of life. To achieve full understanding, we must recognize that indeed there is no defining point or line that separates between you and I. For instance, how do you define what is real, and what is unreal? When you wake up, how do you know that you have entered reality, or have simply entered into another dream?"

And that's how he could end a conversation, with a question that didn't have an answer.

"I can't believe this is happening to me." Denial knocked at my door.

"And why not?"

"It's so..." I struggled to find the right words, "illogical. Nothing makes sense, but somehow everything just fits. How is it that I feel so confused, but at the same time nothing has ever so much sense?"

"Opposites are not as separated as you think. In reality, they are complements to form a whole."

"I can't accept this insanity! My mind's about to blow up. I used to be normal, and I wake up to this. I want to return, return to my boring life, where everything was simple. I don't want to carry this burden anymore." I nearly sobbed.

"Loss of innocence is surely the saddest tragedy," Dumbledore said a little sadly, glancing at the flower bud next to the bench, "How knowledge corrupts the child."

"But why does it have to be this way?"

"Good cannot exist without its counterpart, as a man needs a woman to complete his life."

I couldn't tell whether he was poking fun at me or being serious. That wasn't true, I wanted to protest, he was a homosexual and he seemed to be full circle.

"Right," I gave up trying to ask questions. "I'll be off now, I guess."

"Yes, time is a little beast, isn't she? Always hounding us to get out, to move on, never allowing us a moment to reflect upon ourselves." Dumbledore hummed lightly, another happy tune striking his vocal chords.

"So, uh, how do get out of here?" I stood up. My butt cramped from this long discussion—who knows how long it was.

"Oh, just go straight."

"How can I walk straight? It's a cliff."

"Of course."

"Won't I die?"

"Do not fear death, but see it as a moment of transition, an opportunity where you can progress to become a more perfect being. By your terms, are you not already dead?"

"Gotcha." I almost grinned. His twisted ways were growing on me. What did I have to lose? So I made my way over to the edge of the cliff, and I strained my eyes to see the castle below… it was freaking teeny.

"Before I forget, take this."

I whirled around. Dumbledore's outstretched hand expected me to take whatever was in it.

...He gave me a key necklace.

I am NOT kidding you, folks. Out of all the things that could possibly aid me on my perilous quest to change evil into good, he gives me a frigging necklace. Not a super wand or weapon of mass destruction to defeat the greatest wizard of all time, and definitely not Staples' "Easy Button". Sure it was pretty n' gold and glittered little red rubies and even had some fancy schmancy latin phrase _Amor est vitae essentia_ on it, but how the heck was this supposed to help me? This spelled my doom for sure. I could see it now.

**Hypothetical Situation #1**

Composed by Jean

Special Thanks to Albus Dumbledore (Srsly)

_A boy and girl face each other in a barren desert. The boy, with a venomous expression, holds a wand pointed directly at the girl. The girl, wandless, looks back at the boy in fear._

**Tom: **Any last words before I blow off your head, Jean? _Avada Kev—_

**Jean: **Wait, I have this necklace! _(whips out necklace from pocket and brandishes in front of his face)_

**Tom**: Augh! The gold, it burns my eyes! The latin! It's so mysterious! _(collapses)_

_Exit Jean, leaving Tom lying dramatically on the floor._

_Exeunt._

"What's this for?" I asked, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice.

"For when you need to unlock the doors of that separate your mind. It is the key to the answer to all your questions."

"Riight." Dumbledore just hummed himself crazy. I turned again to face the cliff. Nausea swept over me as I reminded myself just how high the cliff was.

"Good luck!" I heard Dumbledore call out from behind as I leapt off the cliff.

_Shit, what I am doing?!_ Panic flooded my thoughts at the last minute. But it was too late. I plummeted lower and lower... to my second suicide.

"Oomph!"

I landed face first, my nose smashing hard against a scratchy surface. At first all I could see was black, but as I groped around for support trying to stand upright, I realized I had landed on somebody's back, and I was holding onto the folds of somebody's black coat. Great, just great. Way to make an entrance, by breaking somebody's back.

My nose hurt like hell, and I nearly cried again. My joints and her nose throbbed with pain as I stood up. Thankfully, the key necklace was still safe in my hand. It might be helpful, who knows. It was better than nothing.

"Hey, I'm really sor—" I stuttered, but as he turned around I could not continue. The figure who had broken my fall turned out to be a tall, dark haired boy.

"Avery, I've told you not to interfere with—" the angry voice said, but when his face fully met mine his irritation turned to bewildered astonishment as I was not whoever this Avery person was.

His dark, slightly curled hair contrasted with a deathly pale face. This guy was hot. He looked and radiated classic nineteenth century nobility. This guy was perfection in its most divine form. Heck, everything even down to his eyebrows expressed fine confidence.

Dressed in entirely black, a plain silver and green tie hung casually from his collar. And then I noticed his Adam's apple… dammit, why couldn't I stop gawking at him? It disgusts me that I just detailed his appearance as if it was my second nature. I gulped. Even though I had never seen this guy before, I knew those eyes of unforgiving steel which glowered down on me belonged to no other than Tom Riddle!

Crap, crap, crap. Life sucks ass. Dumbledore was probably watching from above, laughing as this cheesy soap opera unfolded like a dorky cliché.

_

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_

_Author's Blabbles..._

_Hi! I'm Shingie. Thank you so much for picking my story to read! It means a lot. My writing is rather rudimentary (mwhaha I used a SAT word!), so bear with me as my writing may go into weird experimental phases and development. If you have any constructive criticism, questions, concerns, or any sort of feedback it is greatly appreciated and treasured._

_Thank you for reading, have a nice day!  
_


	2. Crossed Over

My brain pumped adrenaline and my heart shifted into overdrive. I wish I could say that I was cool and collected when I faced Tom Riddle; I wish I could say I equally matched his death glare that burned like fire. The truth was, my common sense got zapped when he set those pupils on me, so I pretty much acted like I was on crack.

It took only moments before Riddle regained control of his facial expressions, his face shifting from one of surprise to a calm death stare. A group of boys stood behind him, wearing that silver-green Hogwarts uniform, trying to suppress their sniggers.

How nice. So Dumbledore not only sent me hurling like a comet to Tom Riddle's back, but he even was kind enough to provide an audience to witness my death sentence.

I realized he wanted me to kneel, apologize, and grovel for some hope of forgiveness. Look at him, the way he held his nose up high as if he didn't want to get his pretty nose contaminated in the sea of common folk. What a self-centered jerk. I didn't care if I snapped his spine; I would not give him the satisfaction. No way was I going to kowtow to him!

"Good morning," I chirped, struggling to remain casual. I wrinkled my nose, which still stung.

Riddle stiffened, obviously trying to mask another surprised facial expression. Wearing jeans, sneakers, and a Happy Bunny shirt that said _It's cute how you think I'm listening _wasn't the best thing to wear in front of a kid who could _Avada Kedavra_ like it was nobody's business (they were the last clothes I was wearing before the… you know).

"Where is your uniform?"

"I, uh, forgot them."

"Are you even a student?" He cocked his head in mild curiosity, but kept his fixed, unblinking gaze on me. My brain wouldn't think, it wouldn't move, it wouldn't help—the only thing that it focused on was counting down the seconds I had left to live.

"I don't think so…" I trailed off, feeling and sounding pretty stupid.

"I see. What is your name?" he said coolly, his voice as calm as the light blue sky above. Shit, shit, shit. Make something up, anything… If he knew my name, he would probably look me up in the phone book to find my address, stalk and torture me until I apologized… Wait a minute! I'm in the world of—

"Harry Potter!" Wait, how did it that work? I jump off a cliff and I'm just… here?

"Your name is Harry Potter?"

"That's not what I—yes."

"You're lying."

"What, you don't think I look like a Harry?"

He wasn't just staring—he was looking for something, his dark eyes rapidly scanning my face for any weakness he could exploit. He was calculating something, like he was trying to figure out which angle to attack from to wring the greatest profit.

"You're a girl, for one."

"Am I a purdy gurl?" He blinked. I breathed. For now.

"A lady of your stature," he sneered with contempt, glancing distastefully at my clothes and ponytail that collected some sad excuse for hair, "shouldn't parade with such shameless egotism, especially in the presence of one's superior."

So this is what I had to save, huh. An annoying jerk who had his head up in his ass for too long! More anger flared.

"So says the kid who likes to masturbate in his own ego until his testicles blow up."

_Top that_, I challenged, feeling pretty egotistical myself. Instead of the anger I anticipated, Riddle smiled—a pure demonic smile that immediately doused whatever tiny flame of courage that gave me the strength to utter that last remark. He laughed a strange, quiet laugh, clearly enjoying this pathetic attempt at rebellion.

"Such untamed tongue will be the cause of your suffering and punishment."

This could go on forever. "Your blown-up man pride will be the cause of your growing stupidity."

"Did your mum ever reprimand you for such cheek?" Riddle continued, his tone growing less formal and more hostile.

"Did your mom ever reprimand _you_ for being a bastard?"

Whoops, went a little too far. Color drained from Tom Riddle's pastel face, and if I ever imagined a face of death, it was looking at me right now, those demon eyes glazing a sickening blood red.

"_Enough_ of your foolish games." Riddle's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Learn your place, munter—I do not tolerate mockery; I will personally see to it you will be punished soundly for your disrespect."

His hand twitched toward his right pocket, and fear wrenched through my gut. I died that moment, but at the same time new life flooded through me. Reality became a dream, but when I looked into the face of death nothing else could more real than the sadistic grin carved on his handsome face.

"Alright, alright—Break it up, break it up!" a stout ginger-bearded man shouted, trying to make his way through the encircled crowd that had expanded beyond Riddle's gang of Slytherin buddies in the courtyard. I realized there were now several people peering through the windows in great interest. The bearded walrus looked shocked, for he had clearly expected to see some sort of scuffle and not see his favorite student and something else in the center.

"Tom!" he exclaimed. "What's the meaning of this? Why, m'boy, you're looking awful pale; are you al—Merlin's beard…What is _that?!_"

A chubby hand shot over his cholesterol-lidded heart. He called me a _that, _as if I were some alien creature that did not belong.

"Nothing to be overly concerned of, Professor Slughorn," Riddle replied, plastering on a mask of pure innocence. "A thing…with an unpleasant disposition, if I may be so bold to add."

I was about to fire back a shrill "_Excuse me?_" but Slughorn interrupted, "Are you a student of this school, m'aam? How did…here, you'd better come with me."

Glancing distractedly at the snarky bunny on my t-shirt, he motioned for me to follow. With feet of lead, I trudged reluctantly towards Slughorn as the crowd of students dissociated. Looking upwards, large cumulus clouds bounced merrily with the current in the soothing blue sky, but the cliff where I had leapt off from was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The awkward silence, in companion with Slughorn's awkward waddle, filled the air thick as Slughorn guided me throughout the castle. Through the corridor, up the staircase, making a right, making a left, making another right.

Woah, the pictures moved! I stared in fascination at the portraits. Some were yawning, looking contemplative, or simply looking bored in general. A couple silvery, transparent ghosts floated by, chit-chatting quietly. I gripped the key necklace tighter, trying to blot out my racing thoughts. Where am I headed to? Why is this happening to me? What am I supposed to do? Did that portrait just pick his nose?

"Are you a student of this school?" the walrus man asked.

"I'm—well, no."

"Pray then, what are you doing here at Hogwarts?"

I knew where this was going…I could see it now.

**Hypothetical Situation #2**

Composed by Jean

_The corridor is lavished with numerous paintings. A couple ghosts and students walk by in a hurry, not paying attention to the two figures walking awkwardly next to each other. A hefty, golden-bearded man guides a girl holding a key necklace._

**Slughorn: **Pray then, what are you doing at Hogwarts?

**Jean: **Oh, it's a long story. _(laughs) _You see, I've been sent by the ghost of Dumbledore to stop Tom Riddle, who in fifty years or so will attempt to take over the world as Lord Voldemort.

**Slughorn: **Um…smoke pot much?

_Exeunt._

I wanted to tell the truth; I really did. But no matter what hypothetical situation replayed in my mind, I knew I would take this secret with me to the grave. Well… not the grave, since I already died… two times in fact.

"Visiting." Well, it was _partially _true.

A golden eyebrow rose skeptically.

"And you are from—"

"Qatar," I replied impulsively. Damn, where did that come from?

"_Qatar?_"

I probably had **EPIC FAILURE** scrawled across my head in black Sharpie, which would explain his gaping jaw. The other eyebrow went up, and a dark thunder loomed above like my head.

"Yeah." I just shrugged like it was no big deal. _Fail, Fail. Fail. _The footsteps that echoed across the corridor laughed at me.

"Here we are," Slughorn said abruptly. I stopped. A winding staircase guarded by an impressive stone gargoyle barred the way. _Oh…this is the headmaster's office_, I realized and a foolish hope struck. Was Dumbledore going be there to hopefully explain all this shenanigans? I hoped I could throw in a couple punches here and there—that manipulative old pisser never told me anything about this!

Following the golden-haired walrus up the spinning staircase, I focused on counting the number of steps to control my thrashing heartbeat. _One, two, three, four, five, seven…_ crap, I miscounted. _This isn't real. This isn't real, _I assured myself before recalling Dumbledore's words. I sick in the stomach, sick in the soul with the burden of knowledge. This couldn't be happening to me, it just couldn't, but I knew with a sinking heart denial was playing at my fears.

Instead of Dumbledore, some other old balding guy sat at a large, finely polished pinewood desk positioned in the center of the most whacked-up office. Numerous portraits adorned the walls and several machines whirred in cacophony. I thought he kind of looked like a baby Benjamin Button sitting at his teacher's desk.

"Horace," the old fart croaked, "To what do I owe of the pleasure of—good grief, what is _that?_"

Okay, look. I totally understand that my clothes were probably kind of funky and probably Happy Bunny wasn't the best representative of the 21st century. But seriously, there was no need for _that._ Couldn't you _obviously_ tell I was a person, and more importantly, a person with FEELINGS??? I forced a smile that tried to say _Hey, I'm indeed human, pleased to meet you too_ but probably came out more like _Hey, I'm fat-lipped moron lacking social skills._ I helplessly watched Slughorn make his way around the desk to whisper something in the wrinkled ear.

"…just appeared out of nowhere… ran into Riddle… seems to have no idea of who she is or what she's doing here…"

Apparently not only do I not have feelings, but I have no ears either. Kid Benjamin Button's watery brown eyes grew wider and wider as they conversed in secret (well, not so secret). When they were done, both men turned to face me looking a bit nervous, if not scared. The headmaster cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Ehm… let's see, how do I put this," the headmaster coughed, "Visitors are not tolerated unless given prior permission or exception as they serve a disturbance to our school. We're terribly sorry m'aam, but we're going to have to ask you to leave."

Only a miracle could save me now. My knees grew numb as the sting of his words sunk in. This wasn't the end, it couldn't be. Did they have _any_ idea of what I had to suffer to get to this? Facing one-on-one combat with the spawn of Satan himself and surviving, being treated like some unclean, degraded pollutant that wasn't even human...how could they just tell me to give up like it was no big deal? But it was too late. I found herself being guided by Slughorn out of the doorway.

"Wait—"I managed to splutter, swiveling ninety degrees to face the headmaster. I dangled the key necklace from my hand—it was my last hope.

"Oh ho! What do we have here?" he exclaimed, dropping his quill and bolting upright. Relief coursed throughout my veins as the headmaster's eyes glittered with brilliant recognition. They burned with such intensity it was hard to meet his eyes, because sometimes it's easier to avoid the look of truth than to face it head on.

"Your father warned me it might end up like this," the headmaster chuckled. "Oh, I knew it from the beginning!"

Knew what? I flash him a necklace and he starts giggling and wiping tears from his eyes? And I thought I was nuts.

"Any person can impersonate a Belmont, but you can never be sure unless they have possession of the telltale emblem of the family." He smiled, as if it he was proud of being part of the greatest inside joke of the century.

"Hehe, yeah." I sounded like a 40-year-old pedophile trying to re-enroll into kindergarten.

"Has your father ever mentioned me? I am personally close friends with Lord Belmont, the dear chap. How is he?"

Wait a minute. The suck-up tone of this voice, pretending to have close connections… I knew this all too well. Hold it one flipping finger—I was being mistaken for somebody else! Holy crap, the headmaster actually thought I belonged to some rich, established family with their own emblem.

From the way I saw it, I had two choices. A) Convince the headmaster that I'm not whoever he thinks I am, so he sends me away and my adventure ends there or B) Play along and let's see how long this charade lasts, just for the heck of it.

"Uh, fine. H-he sends his best wishes." Just play it cool, just play it cool.

"Yes, your father has said so many wonderful things about you, his only child, and he has been strangely insistent that he send you abroad," he clapped his hands in delight, "And I can see why—you truly are a gem!"

A minute ago I'm a "disturbance to the school", and now I'm a gem. Interesting how radically different people treat you if they know (or think they know) who you are.

"We were expecting you a couple days earlier, but no matter; it is only the third day of school. Your trunk and belongings had already arrived and are waiting for you."

"They are?" Wait a minute, I was going to move here? As a student?

"Of course," he mused, "We did not expect you to arrive in such a fashion."

"Yeah," I said in disbelief that this was actually happening to me, "They're, um, all the rage back home."

"Ah, the French have such, eh… interesting taste! Silly me, I nearly forgot! Forgive me. Armando Dippet, headmaster. I am most honored to welcome you here at Hogwarts, school of witchcraft and wizardry," Dippet said, making his way around his pinewood desk, grabbing my hand, and pumping it enthusiastically.

"Jean. Jean Belmont." So from that day on, I would no longer be me, because I willingly chose to sacrifice my old identity to fit into a new skin. If I failed the new skin, it would be of my fault and of my responsibility.

"Of course you need to be sorted, don't you? Sit, sit."

He ushered me into a visitor's chair, whipped out a crumpled hat, and plopped it on my head. So I felt pretty retarded, sitting there stupidly in my stupid jeans and sneakers with an embarrassingly ugly hat, with a walrus and a kid Benjamin Button beaming broadly at me.

This is kind of how the conversation went…

**Well, well, well, what do we have here?**

_Um…a girl doubting her own sanity?_

**Such a unique framework of mind, but barricaded by fear and doubt.**

_You're a hat, what would you know? _

**Your strength is in your mind, but is also your greatness weakness, for you allow your indecision to rule over you instead of ruling it.**

_Can you make the decision already? I gotta pee._

**The question is, would you be able to make this decision by yourself, if I was not making it for you?**

_Yada yada, I've already heard this crap from Dumbledore. I don't need it from you._

***insert gay chuckle here* My dear, you are still a mere budding youngling. Do not be so quick to hate, for you will find it more often an obstacle than a tool for progress.**

_MAKE THE GODDAMN DECISION ALREADY. MY BLADDER'S ABOUT TO BURST!!!_

"RAVENCLAW!" the hat declared. Was it just me, or was everybody in the Harry Potter world as annoying as hell? I leapt of the chair eagerly and handed the hat to Dippet. I was done, I was free!

"Excellent." The headmaster smiled and turned to Slughorn. "The usual tour, Horace."

So I headed out the doorway to where Slughorn stood, feeling much lighter _with_ my inner liquids still intact.

* * *

"I knew it all along!" Slughorn cheerfully slapped my back as we stepped out of the office.

"Oompf—knew what?"

"I could tell you were a Belmont from the beginning—they have that look."

Did he mean the my face that was twisted in pain due to his unexpected whack-in-the-back? Sure. That would explain the whole 'epic failure' interrogation session earlier. But there's nothing to do but smile weakly and play along when a slugs tries to suck up, because their suction sticks like a blood-sucking leech.

"I must admit, I am surprised that you weren't sorted in my house—most traditional pureblooded families belong to Slytherin," he continued, "but no matter. Did your father ever mention me? He was a student of mine, you know."

"No, he didn't."

So that's how the conversation pretty much went like for the next half hour. The walrus would gleefully direct me to some random place of the castle, mentioning how well he knew my father or how brilliant of a student he was or how he knew I was a Belmont all along. And then he'd try to make some friendly conversation, but thanks to my natural ability in antisocialism, I would cut it off, trying to end the conversation. Rinse, lather, and repeat and you've got the summary of the best conversation I've had since I set foot in this castle.

Besides that, the tour wasn't bad. Hogwarts castle stood as the most intricate piece of architecture ever possible, defying physics and even logic. JK Rowling had a pretty wild imagination—this place was a zoo (except it didn't smell like poo) of restless portraits, moving statues, and rotating stairs. I felt like I was trying to find my way through Yu-Gi-Oh's Millennium puzzle.

"Fawcett!" The walrus man waved at a dark haired girl walking along the hallway. She wore the Hogwarts uniform, but instead of silver and green, it was bronze and blue.

"Yes, Professor?" she replied, turning to face us both and adjusting her one-strap school bag.

Woah. Spicy-green bedroom eyes worked in junction with a model body to pretty much declare this girl anybody's one night stand. Dark, glossy curls playfully flirted about her thin delicate neck, pretty much flipping off any girl who wasn't as pretty as she was.

"This is our transfer student from France. Can you show her to the Ravenclaw common room?"

"Of course, Profressor."

I think I turned lesbian when I got a glimpse of her legs.

"Well, Belmont, I'll be off. I trust you are in good hands. By Jove, the big Jobberknoll Joust is tonight—I've got 500 galleons on The Great Blue One!"

Slughorn's eyes gleamed with opportunity as he trotted off, his belly fat jiggling an entire orchestra. I watched him go, and you know that feeling you get when you're a new student at school and your teacher just left you to force you to mingle with other students? Yeah. I got that feeling at that moment.

"So, what's your name?" She smiled one of those fake, artificial girl smiles, the kind that pretended that she even cared a ding about me.

"Jean."

"Well, my name's Valetta Fawcett," she said quite snottily (the British accent helped), gliding her way across the corridor, "I'm so glad you're in Ravenclaw! It's the best. We'll be the best of friends, I'm positive."

She was pretty good at faking at being nice, that slut. I smiled back at her, wondering how long I could keep up this game of masks and mistaken identities.

* * *

"Do you like boys?" she asked, heading up tight, winding staircase and taking a moment to flounce her hair.

Wait a minute, did she catch me staring at her? Don't get me wrong, I'm straight, but there's something so entrancing about her aura you can't help but stare. You just gawk at her and go, _How can you be so pretty…and human??_

"I like boys myself, oh pooh, but they are nothing but such trouble," she continued without waiting for an answer, "Last week Bluefields wouldn't stop bothering me!"

For a moment I wished I was her, so I complain about guys in her carefree manner that she did. Even though it she was complaining, Valetta obviously enjoyed the attention and enjoyed complaining about the attention. But then again, I wouldn't want to be her, because she was about as shallow as a piece of paper.

"Can the Acromantula still be poisonous if it loses its venom?" the door in front us spoke. When I said this castle defied physics and even logic, I wasn't kidding.

No wait, it was the bronze eagle knocker bolted to the door that spoke.

"No password?" I asked. I thought the fat lady portrait guarded the door, no wait… that was for Gryffindor.

"Hmm." Valetta frowned in concentration. "There are more ways to poison than by venom alone."

"Well stated," it complimented, and the door swung open.

"This is the Ravenclaw common room—there's to the toilet, left to the girls' dormitories, right to the boy's dormitories."

And so we headed up the girls dorms, where Valetta guided me to a room. Four beds with neatly tucked sheets, as well as four trunks at the foot of each bed took up the entire room, spaced out evenly.

"Anyway I've got to get to Runes. Just get settled in." She waved and headed off.

For the first time, I was completely alone. I stood there. All this time, there had been other forces pushing me to go somewhere, do or say something that wasn't me. It was kind of like an embarrassing openness, and without anybody forcing me to act I had no clue what to do.

I headed my way over to the trunk that sat the foot of the bed. I opened it. HOLEY SMOLEY. Did you know what was in it? Sure, there were school supplies like textbooks and cauldrons but there were also dresses. Lots of dresses with the most exquisite of designs, with frills and laces. The material was rich. And all the expensive jewelry? I wasn't even worthy of touching them, let alone wearing them.

That's when it dawned on me. Why everybody was acting so nice to me. It was clear now—the Belmont was apparently some mega-rich established, pureblooded family.

My schedule listed my classes, which I was kind of worried about, because in the wizarding world there is no such thing as algebra or biology. Just a bunch of biz-wiz classes with fancy names—Transfiguration, Potions, Defense against the Dark Arts, and so much more. How the heck was I supposed to take these classes?

A letter was also attached to the trunk, as well as package.

_My dearest daughter,_

_How proud of you we are, for you are finally of age to becoming a woman. We weep to see you leave, but at the same time we must let you go to become your own. Your mind has expanded so much; there is nothing I can teach you any more. It seemed just yesterday I teaching you how to raise your own diricawl—ah the nostalgic rush it brings! _

_Attached with this letter is a package which contains a new wand, to signify your transition into an adult. 8 and ¾ inches, unicorn tail and willow bark. It chose you when you were only 8 months old—I have safe kept it for all these years just for this moment._

_I have the utmost confidence Hogwarts will be the right place to find yourself. Au revoir, ma fille. Travailler dur!_

_With all our love,_

_Lord Bertrand Belmont_

_Lady Alvina Belmont_

Then it hit me. That speeding truck again. I was supposed to be pretending to be somebody else, a super rich French kid who's a transfer student.

I pried open the package. A brown stick lay comfortably cushioned in deep royal-red velvet. I picked it up and my mind went stupid for a second, because I had no idea what to do with it.

Then I got really guilty and gently placed the stick back into its home. This wasn't my wand. Those weren't my frilly dresses and this definitely wasn't my place. Somebody else was supposed to here; somebody else was supposed to be standing here, reading this letter, and holding this wand.

Did Dumbledore plan it this way? He must have. Why else would he choose to give me that key necklace? What a situation Dumbledore cleverly landed me in, and like a blind idiot, I willingly stepped in the trap. That was _so_ like him, to convince somebody to go on a quest and not reveal any details that might cause me to go _Wait a minute, that's absolutely bonkers! No way. Go do it yourself, you selfish pig. Stop sending innocent teenagers to do your grunt work. _I trusted Dumbledore—he was smart, and he practically knew everything. Sure he was a bit insane, but he would never place me in a situation which I couldn't handle…would he?

But could I really do it? Could I really pull it off? I didn't know one single word of French. It would be easy, I reasoned to myself—just act like one of those loaded, rich kids. That's not too hard, right? But what would happen if the real Belmont girl barged in to renounce her rightful claim as a transfer student?

_Stop it. You worry too much._

I peered into the trunk again and noticed a handsome black notebook. I picked it up… and it was blank. Such a beautiful notebook couldn't be left blank! So I picked up a quill and starting writing. If I die during this mission, I can't live without my voice unheard.

I guess that's how everything comes around full circle. I died a total of three times to get here—the first time when my brain decayed to conform to society, the second when I took those pills, and the third when I jumped off that cliff. This quill still smells like bird poo and I still have no idea what the heck I am supposed to be doing. I can't for the life of me figure out how Dumbledore managed to get me to agree to go on this mission.

But I guess this isn't a diary, because I don't even know the date. Oh look, a bed. I'm tired. Good night. Or good morning?


	3. Sprouted Wings

Somebody threw a pillow at my face.

"Dipping Dugbogs, what does it take to get this girl awake?"

I half opened my eyes, and morning light flooded my world. Half of me wanted to be a lazy slob and go back to sleep, while the other half nagged at me like an annoying mother to wake up.

Then I remembered. _Dumbledore. Tom Riddle. Belmont._ Suddenly wide awake, I shot up so fast the pillow rolled off the bed. Valetta and two other girls beamed at me.

"Morning, Belmont."

I stifled a sigh. When God devised an afterlife for me, why did he have to include school?

A set of bronze-blue Ravenclaw uniforms had already been laid at the foot of the bed. Awkwardly, I got dressed while watching Valetta and the other stupid girls dressed gracefully like a lady. I finished getting ready, schoolbag and all, in less than five minutes while the other girls carefully styled their hair and plaster their faces with makeup. So I waited. And waited some more.

"So Letty totally ignored me yesterday." Stupid Girl No. 1 pouted into her compact mirror.

"He's just jealous that Ackerton's paying attention to you," Stupid Girl No. 2 replied, making sure the uniform curved around her waist.

"Girls, girls. You know Ackerton's after Featherbe—I saw them snogging in the corridors yesterday!" Valetta announced dramatically, carefully applying a layer of rouge to her lips.

"Maeve Featherbe? That sleazebag!"

"I know, right? She always has to be the center of everything. Oh—I need to lose weight."

"What are you talking about? Look at me!"

"Codswallop! Valetta, there is_ nothing_ wrong with you."

I felt like a hippopotamus stranded in the Sahara.

My brain is a hotel. In a typical normal everyday conversation, the pink organ inhabiting my skull just checks out and whatever messages gets stored in some deep rock deposit of my mind, where I might mull over them later. And if somebody says something to me, the check-in lady goes, "You wanted to send a message? Oh, she's not available at the moment; just put your note in this little drop in box right here."

Then somebody else comes in to occupy my body. Or maybe my body just goes on autopilot, and it's like I'm not in control of my life anymore. Somebody else is controlling my life, or I'm just a conforming robot of this capitalistic society. Nobody ever suspects anything because on the outside I'm good at pretending I'm still there and listening to you, although in reality I'm a deadened soul. It's hard to say where my mind goes at these moments because I can't tell whether my mind is on a temporary vacation or is spiraling down a bottomless, black hole.

So I followed the girls like a silent shadow as they made their way around the castle, gossiping and giggling about their empty lives, feeling completely hollow inside myself.

* * *

"The Lethifold," Professor Merrythought explained, tapping her wand on the chalkboard and an illustration emerged, "is a rare creature, resembling a black cloak. In the darkest of nights, it smothers sleeping children to death before consuming them like a fine steak."

Her decaying face smiled, and a couple people laughed awkwardly. Just nod and pretend. Just nod and pretend like you know what's going on, while truthfully the only thing I understood were the words _fine steak_. _Yummy steak. I'm hungry. Okay, Jean. Focus._ _At least try to understand what's going on._

The Defense of the Dark Arts teacher assigned textbook reading for the rest of the class. For the next twenty minutes or so all I did there was sit there like a wet cement block, head bent studiously to look like I was reading diligently. Every other word was some mysterious Harry Potter lingo bingo. _The hag, not to be confused with the banshee, resembles a magical persons known for their Oppugno diddy do da blah blah blah_…

I didn't learn anything except for the hinkypunk isn't some hippie band, and the banshee should really take some choir lessons.

The chime of a grandfather clock echoed throughout the room. Merrythought glanced upwards from her desk. "Class is dismissed. I want an essay about the hag verses the banshee by Thursday—at least two rolls of parchment!"

Divination wasn't much better. Wearing two-inch thick glasses, Professor Conman raved passionately about dreams and death, but mostly death. Dreams, Professor Conman explained, is a future-predicting device.

Except that everything in _The Dream Oracle_ predicted death, doom, or danger. Dreaming about demiguises going salsa dancing—death. Snidgets hosting tea parties—death. I could not help but feel very disturbed that the three inch textbook talked ecstatically about how the various symbols in your dreams in some way or another meant death.

"Seeing a jarvey chase a gnome while hopping one foot," Professor Conman was saying, "What does this foretell?"

A girl raised her hand. "Death."

Pfft. What else could it possibly mean?

"Correct, Miss Dunmere. Ten points to Hufflepuff!"

"So, what did ya think of Divination?" Stupid Girl No. 2 asked me as we headed out the door.

"Okay, I guess. Sorta. Professor Conman was kind of weird though. Like he's in love with death or something,"

"Oh, don't worry 'bout that. Transfiguration gets better, especially with Professor Dumbledore teaching it." Stupid Girl No 1 giggled and blushed.

"Quite tidy, isn't he?" Valetta's curls bounced like a slinky.

Gosh, what kind of twisted world did I get sucked into? What century am I in, where teenage girls get horny for wizened gentlemen with lime earwax?

"Really." I tried to mask my shock. Or disgust, I couldn't exactly tell. "I wouldn't say so, he's—"

He's what, though? I couldn't find the right words that didn't sound like rude. Way too old for you? Has unique sexual preferences?

I never got to finish my sentence though, because Valetta and the Stupid Girls started blabbing about some other people I didn't know.

"Did you hear? Brackenbury had a little romp with Ashques."

"I never thought she'd cave in like that!"

"Well she did; Eglentine told me yesterday in Herbology."

As my brain gradually faded away again, isolation and low self-esteem engulfed everything else. All people did was talk about other people. It was like fifth grade all over again—being the quiet, shy new kid I hated so much. Like any other new kid, I'd probably wind at the library during lunch for next six months to avoid like a pathetic loner.

I tried to tell myself I should try and make friends. But at that moment, when I looked at Valetta and the Stupid Girls talking excitedly, they didn't look like people at all. Just shallow plastic Barbie dolls who only cared about themselves and plastic society they created.

* * *

My jaw dropped to the floor when I stepped through the large titanium doors during lunch. Four long tables stretched as far as the eye could see, filled with cheerful chattering students seated in the long, wooden benches. The tables groaned with the mounds of food piled on top. I gained like twenty pounds just gawking at all—mountains of pork chops and other mysterious meat that glittered cholesterol and fat, and the generously frosted desserts that promised obesity if not diabetes. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted throughout the room.

Plopping myself next to where Valetta and her friends seated themselves at, I helped myself to a steaming chicken leg. Everybody else seemed to be too immersed in conversation to be devouring the mounds of food. Talking and laughing, they waved their hands eagerly recounting the latest news. No matter what somebody said, it was always funny.

"In Potions, when I accidentally added nettle instead of the knotgrass in my strengthening potion, it blew up! Slughorn's face boiled as red as an ashwinder's egg!" A boy with ruffled brown hair threw his arms back to demonstrate just how red it was. Everybody laughed.

"Nice going, mate!" The guy next to me called back. "That's nothing compared to what happened in Divination today—"

Everybody laughed again. I smiled in the midst of all the shouting and laughter, feeling cheered up.

But I didn't really understand what they were saying—I just knew it was funny. How stupid I've been this whole time! Plunging myself into situations without thinking, telling lie after lie, parading around like a know-it-all. If I was going to act like a Belmont and pull it off, I would need to do research and not make up as I go. I needed a rational head. I gnawed at my fork in deep thought.

What a idiot I am—sure they acted, talked, and looked like people, but I forgot this was a society completely different of the world I knew. They had their own customs and dialect. _They even had their own social issues_, I thought guiltily_. _The food laid on the table was probably made by house-elves on slave wages.

_Exactly. So if you're going to blend in, you're gonna have to do some research so that you actually know what you're talking about._

I peered around the Great Hall, trying to mimic the wizarding teenager in its natural habitat during mealtimes. A random kid on another table dissected his pie voraciously. A girl tapped her wand on the rim of an empty goblet, trying to practice a spell. I felt like a scientist, or some explorer plunging into a new world of adventure and discovery. The mystery of it all got me tingly and excited, as if I was entering unknown, forbidden territory.

Then I saw something that didn't make me feel so good. At the far end of the table sat a group of sad children. They were so scrawny and stick thin, and they didn't eat the food in front of them, but rather stared at it in a miserable trance. Although they wore the same uniform, it was much more frayed and tattered. Huddled in the little corner of the table, their gray faces looked deprived of happiness and hope.

I frowned. Everything seemed unbalanced—it was as if all the sadness in the room was concentrated toward one of the room, while the other side selfishly refused to share their happiness. My eyes flicked back to happy people, the side I was sitting at. Full of life and laughter, they didn't notice the sad children. Or maybe they were pretending not to notice.

Then I saw The Girl. Trudging the walkway that separated between the Ravenclaw and the Hufflepuff table, her thin face looked like somebody had shoved a heavy burden upon her small shoulders, which was why she couldn't stand proud and tall.

"You're on the wrong side of the table, Mudblood!" A girl screeched.

Startled, The Girl stumbled and tripped. The contents of her bag spilled out. Everybody laughed again, and an unpleasant shiver ran through my blood.

"Where'd you get the bag, mudblood? Fashion it out of your mum's knickers?"

My stomach tangled into hard knots. I wanted to help the poor girl, to stand up for her. I wanted to scream, to tell everybody S_top_, _this isn't funny anymore! Can't you see she's about to cry? Don't you know what it's like to be picked on?_

But I didn't. Why? Because stupid peer pressure, that's why.

It comes in all forms, some so painfully obvious and some so covertly hidden you don't realize you've been peer pressured until after you've caved in and regretted it. And when you're not being peer pressured, you're being drilled by those anti-peer pressure people who tell you to not conform—those ads that have teens saying no to racism and prejudice; those motivational speakers, who always tell you to stand up against bullies.

It's easy to promise yourself you won't turn a blind eye to somebody being bullied. It's easy to envision yourself as the hero who stands up for what's right, even if she's alone. But for some reason, as I sat there watching everybody laugh at The Girl, the person I wanted to be never appeared.

So The Girl gathered her things alone and walked away, to the end of the table where the sad children sat. And on the other side, the happy children resumed laughing.

I stood up.

"Where are you going?" Valetta turned her head from the guy she was flirting with to face me.

"Library—I need to check something up."

I was hoping that she would stop me and insist that she wanted me to be here as friends and not a social convenience.

"Oh," was all she said. "Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah." I nodded. "Professor Slughorn showed me the other day."

"Don't forget, we have Transfiguration at three."

"I won't." I waved half-heartedly as I stepped away from the table and turned around.

"Stop that Bertie!" I heard Valetta half-whine, half-giggle, "That's a sensitive spot."

* * *

Being alone as I maneuvered myself through the hallways gave me energy to think, but when I actually started doing some thinking it ended up with a bunch of different voices arguing in my head.

**Making Sense of Things**

Composed by Jean

_Enter Alpha Jean. Alpha Jean strolls to sit at the head of table already filled with several Jeans exhibiting several different personalities_.

**Leader-Wannabe Jean:** _(grabs paper and pencil)_ Ok, let's make a plan.

**Alpha Jean:** I don't know what to do!

**Leader-Wannabe Jean:** Let's start out with what you know. Gather and organize your information.

**Alpha Jean:** I'm supposed to stop Tom Riddle from becoming Lord Voldemort.

**Leader-Wannabe Jean:** And what is our plan?

**Smarty Pants Jean:** Well, Dumbledore said you have to figure out which point in his life he took the wrong path or something like that.

**Alpha Jean:** But I can't remember if there is even an exact point when Tom Riddle turned evil. It seemed like… a combination of factors unfortunately put together.

**Smarty Pants Jean:** Well then! You'll just have to change those factors!

**Insecure Jean**: Maybe it's not something like making a right choice or the wrong choice. Maybe it's more than that.

**Smarty Pants Jean:** Stop trying to act smarter than me! _(thwacks Insecurity in her head)_

**Insecure Jean**: _(cries)_

**Leader-Wannabe**: Order, order in the court!

**Tom Riddle: **Yes, I would like an order of a cheeseburger and fries to go.

**Smarty-Pants Jean**: Don't tell me what to do, you aren't the alpha figure. And how did _you_ get here?

**Alpha Jean**: _(in deep thought, ignoring the argument)_ You know, now that when I look at the big picture, I think the moment he opened his eyes in the world his destiny was already written out.

**Questioning Jean**: But this destiny stuff, it's all crap, right?

**Leader-Wannabe Jean:** Stop being so wishy-washy. Destiny and predicting the future, it's all bull. We're looking for something definite here.

**Romanticizing Jean**: Sometimes, we're fated to become who you are, to meet the true love of your life. Destiny is inevitable. You can't avoid it.

**Rejected Jean**: Go back to your soap operas—real life doesn't work like that.

**Questioning Jean:** How can that be, don't we have free will? Don't we have a fully functioning brain to make the choices in our life?

**Emo Jean**: _(plucks petal out of wilted flower and sighs)_

_Exit Alpha Jean, leaving the rest of the Jeans arguing amongst themselves._

_Exeunt._

I sighed and shut off the running voices in my head. This was getting nowhere. If logic is so logical, then why do I have to run around in circles trying to make sense of it?

When I stepped into the library, I was in complete shock. Instead of running electricity the sunlight seared through the numerous window panes, providing a much stronger light. Lined up like soldiers in perfect formation, the bookshelves cast long shadows. So there was an interesting pattern of shadow and light, shadow and light in the vast library.

Why did everything look so different? The people looked different. At my high school, people would listen to their I-pods, text on their cell phones furtively, or share a bag of Doritos under the table while the hawk-eyed librarian raked the room 24/7 for any signs of eating, cell phones, and I-pods.

But the only people in the library was a funkily-dressed, middle-aged lady whom I presumed to be the librarian, and a bunch of obedient, uniformed students scattered everywhere, scratching away at their white fluffy quills diligently or thumbing through a book.

I gazed at this red-faced kid scribble on a piece of parchment so frantically I could hear the quill's scritch-scratches.

At least procrastination is universal.

A book nearly missed my head. Whoa—the books sorted themselves in order! I observed in awe as a bunch of books flew round the room before finally landing themselves in the bookshelf.

For some reason, everybody looked so… old fashioned. Nobody wore piercings, no Goth chicks with scary eyeliner, and no skinny jeans. _Oh… of course. You're in the 1940s, idiot._ No Wikipedia, no Ctrl + F, and definitely no internet connection. I groaned at thinking of having to plow through everything without shortcuts.

I tiptoed to a bookcase, scanning the faded titles. _Ghost Folklore Through the Ages, Gnome Breeding for Beginners, The Origin of the Goblin, Great Wizarding Families H – O, Great Wizarding Families P – Q, Great Wizarding families R – Z…_ Wait a minute! Where was—

"Looking for this?" I felt somebody's cool breath on the back of my neck.

I turned around, and found myself facing a green and silver tie. Then I jumped two feet in the air. Tom Riddle, looking devilishly handsome, casually leaned against the opposite bookshelf, with _Great Wizarding Families A – G_ clasped in his long, pale fingers.

Note to self: Stop being so predictable.

"Nothing like looking up a little family history," I squeaked. My eyes darted and fro, but those giant bookshelves were like his personal body guards, blocking escape with their large frame.

"Then I believe that _Great Wizarding Familes P – Q_, is what you are looking for, Potter," Riddle leaned forward, stretching his arm out and casually placing his hand on the shelf I was backed against, which conveniently blocked the escape route I had in mind.

"My name," I tried to be brave, "is Jean Belmont."

Riddle smiled pleasantly. "Funny, I could have sworn the other day you told me your name was Harry Potter."

I almost freaked out, because he was acting so out of character. The smiling sunshine Tom Riddle was scarier than the red-eyed demon version—at least he was being honest about his emotions then.

"I, um," I stuttered, "have multiple personality disorder."

Why couldn't I stop lying? It was almost compulsive. Instead of telling the truth like a good little girl should, I spout out some ridiculous lie. Yesterday I'm Harry Potter from Qatar, and then I'm Jean Belmont from France. Next thing you know, I'll be pretending to be Santa Claus from Puerto Rico.

"It's—It's like when you have multiple personalities," I blabbered, having no idea what I was talking about, "Sometimes I shift identities as easily as blinking. So sometimes I'm Harry Potter."

Riddle studied me. "I see."

Damn it, why didn't I see this coming? I knew he'd look me up in the phonebook or some sort directory so he could use that information to plot his revenge of squeezing out that apology I owed him from yesterday. That unnerving stare of his again—was he waiting for me to say something?

I pointed to the book in his hands. "Anyway, what are you doing with the book?"

"Oh, nothing like looking up a little family history." The corners of his mouth curved upwards.

"That's my line. And your last name isn't even in the A to G section." I said, a bit snappish.

"I suppose." He was checking out his fingernails, that jerk, like he had all the time in the world.

"So that means you've got not use for it, right? So why not hand it to me?" I laughed weakly, trying to sound witty.

He didn't join my attempt to lighten up the dark atmosphere. Riddle pretended to ponder over my words for a second, but it was so obvious he was waiting for this moment all day—me begging him for something, and him being in complete control. Stupid, stubborn tree stump.

But as composed Riddle appeared to be, there was something unnaturally calm about him. Sure, he seemed to be casual and easygoing for the moment, but I sensed inside he was unstable like a chemical experiment, ready to blow up and _Avada Kedavra _me on the spot if he felt like it.

"Why do you need it?" Slick daddy-o leaned closer, his nose inches from mine. Restraining order, anybody?

"I just wanna check something up." I tried to shrug like it was no big deal, but I couldn't breathe.

"I find it surprising that your parents never taught you your family's origins." But Riddle didn't look surprised at all.

The hint of accusation was growing stronger—he was closing the gap. I had nowhere else left to run, no more excuses to give. He snared me in his trap.

"A Belmont who needs to research her own family—how did this come to be?"

Riddle smiled again, but this time the shadow from the bookcase made it look quite intimidating. _Now_ I could see the evil. It didn't feel like a casual conversation anymore, but a _you-better-spit-out-an-explanation-now-or-I'll-smother-you-with-my-sexy-eyes_ interrogation. I tried not to whimper.

"Your demeanor, your mannerisms. Do you really think you can fool me?" His voice edged near a snarl.

"I—"

"The words you use, the atmosphere around you. You don't belong here."

"Of course not, I'm from France." I tried to laugh it off.

"How did you enter Hogwarts?" Tom Riddle glared at me; his friendly pretense had fallen flat on the floor so long ago.

I almost let out a whimper. "I appararated here."

"Lies," he hissed. "I asked around. Everybody saw you—"

To my relief, he stepped back a bit. I raised an eyebrow, because he looked kind of weirded out.

"—fall from the sky," he finished, as if he didn't believe it himself. Well, it _did_ sound rather unlikely.

"Um, how do you know they aren't lying? That's a pretty far-fetched story."

He laughed scarily. "I have my ways."

I didn't dare question that.

"How did you manage to enter unseen and undetected?" Riddle persisted, "How were you able to penetrate Hogwarts security?"

I started cracking up. He probably thought I used some special spell or I had some magical power that he didn't have!

"Falling from the sky? Isn't it obvious?" I snorted. "I'm a God-sent angel from heavens, sent to tell you that—"

I couldn't continue, because the realization that struck me robbed me of words and twisted my vocal cords tight.

_To tell him I'm going to save his life._

I stared at Tom Riddle. Even though nothing really changed, I felt changed. I didn't feel scared at all anymore, because when I gazed into Tom Riddle's handsome face I realized it was he who needed help—he was the one who was vulnerable.

"To tell me—?"

It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. I was suddenly brought back to earth.

"You've got something on your face." I reached up to brush away the dust ball clinging on his cheek. Score one for catching Riddle off guard.

"Are you really?" He actually looked like he believed me for a second.

"Of course not," I snapped. "Angels don't exist. I'm a normal person just like you, without supernatural powers or divine qualities. What did you think I was?"

His face hardened again, to that same indifferent look. The magical moment was over.

I felt a little awkward. "So…can I have the book now?"

Riddle looked like he was going to ask another question, "Here." He handed the book over, with a bored look on his face.

"Seriously? No more questions? You're just going to hand it over, just like that?"

"This conversation is no longer of any purpose to me," Tom said, turning away in disinterest.

Riddle reminded me of a cat bored with his catnip, and he was just going to abandon me here because he was tired of chewing on me for entertainment. As I watched him slink away, something told me he would be back expecting his toy right where he left it so he could play this game again. I stood there for a moment, stupid. Then I remembered what I came here for. I cracked open the book eagerly, and plopped myself in a desk so I could read.

Sure as fire, the Belmonts were listed, the name scrawled in some extreme Edwardian Script. There was some text under a picture of a bearded man that looked so five hundred years ago, along with a more modern picture of a mansion.

_The Belmont family ruled the wizarding society of France, dating back from the fourteenth century, known for their adept skill in transfiguration. In the Revolution of 1770, when the ministry was established throughout Europe to help organize the wizards into hiding, the Belmont family lost all authoritative power. However, today they remain valuable patrons of education and for the magical arts research and development._

_Valuable patrons!_ I laughed silently. What a nice way of saying they basically bribed their way into society. Still, it made sense why Dippet and everybody else were so nice—they probably thought they could squeeze some extra cash out of a Belmont's daughter.

I flipped the page. A long list of Belmonts and their accomplishments followed in the frayed ink. Some invented spells, established organizations, donated chunks of galleons, and wrote books. The lazy afternoon sun draped around me like a warm blanket, and as I read on and on, I got more and more bored. My eyelids grew heavy.

* * *

I sat in the park bench that overlooked the cliff, feeling rather small as I overlooked the world. The cliff liked doing that—making me feel insignificant, making me feel so small in comparison to the big picture.

I stared at Dumbledore. "What are you doing?"

"I'm knitting a sweater," Dumbledore replied. _Clink-clink_ went the bronze twin needles.

"I didn't know you could knit."

"It's for my grandchildren."

I frowned. "How did YOU get grandchildren? I thought you were—"

"Oh, heavens no." Dumbledore smiled. I sighed.

"Why do you sigh?" Dumbledore stopped knitting and turned to face me.

"It's just that you never make any sense." I guess that how all our conversations start, with me in frustration and Dumbledore being a jerk-head about my feelings.

Dumbledore smiled. "Did you expect things to?"

"Well, you can't expect me to suspend all belief—wait a minute, is that Furby?"

A white Furby sat in the middle of the park bench, clicking its plastic beak away.

"Me hungry," the mechanical contraption sighed.

"Yes," Dumbledore said happily, "Fascinating little critters, are they? Ronald keeps me good company."

I blinked. Nothing made sense. "Is this a lucid dream?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I'm crazy."

"_Doo-moh._" Ronald clicked its beak.

"Denial is a natural part of the human process." Dumbledore nodded with understanding.

"So says the grandmother knitting a sweater for his imaginary grandkids," I muttered. "If this is a dream, does this mean I can pull out a light saber from my pocket and slice off your beard?"

Dumbledore chuckled lightly. "That's not really why I'm here, am I?"

I reached into my pocket for the light saber. There was nothing there. I tried again. Nothing. I frowned.

"So if I can't control things, then this isn't a dream? How is this possible? I'm in the library, reading. How can I be there and here at the same time? It has to be a dream. That's the only explanation," I said, talking to myself more than to Dumbledore.

"That is one side of the explanation," Dumbledore said quietly, knitting. He pulled out a ball of pink yarn and stowed the green one away.

"What's the whole explanation?"

"You are still thinking of terms of real and unreal, of right and wrong, of success and failure. As long as you separate those two, you will never reach the full understanding you have been seeking your whole life."

I gaped at him. He's nuts. Or maybe I am. How could he tell me to believe that success and failure were the same thing?

"So if it isn't a dream, then are you communicating me from the dead? Or from…" I stopped, feeling somewhat creeped out. Where _did_ Dumbledore come from?

"You still have doubts of whether this is real or not?" Dumbledore asked, petting Ronald the Furby's tuft of chest hair.

"Of course, I do—if it's not real, then what's the point of doing this?"

"Dreams aren't real. Yet the man has been working to decipher of why we dream and what they mean for centuries. Why do we strive so hard to find meaning in our dreams if they aren't real?" Dumbledore pointed out.

I shrugged. "I guess we're trying to find a deeper meaning in something that's doesn't really mean anything. Or we like pretending that our dreams do have meaning, when they don't."

"Are dreams completely meaningless then, if they are not real?"

I frowned. I didn't want to think of dreams _that_ way. I liked my dreams. I would feel cheated if my dreams turned out to be nothing at all—they were the only thing keeping me alive.

"No, they probably do have some value," I said, but I couldn't think a good reason of why dreams are in our lives.

"Jean, just because something may not be real does not mean you should equate it as meaningless." Dumbledore hummed to himself, knitting away.

"I guess." I laughed a little. Dumbledore had a way with words that could convince you that the sky was green and the grass was blue.

"Dreamy," Ronald the Furby batted it's disturbingly long eyelashes.

"So are you—"

"Am I really here, you mean? I think," Dumbledore chuckled, "that you should wake up now."

Like a bubble, the conversation ended with a _pop! _Feeling slightly weirded out, I raised my head that had been resting on the table. I was still in the library, but the light from the windows had dimmed a little. The library was completely empty and the book had vanished. How long had it been?

_Dare I look at the clock?_

I looked. It was twenty minutes past three. I gasped loudly. Grabbing my school bag, I rushed out the library to find the Transfiguration class.

* * *

I opened the door, trying to be as quiet as possible and not attract any attention. It was already embarrassing enough that I was like thirty minutes late. But the door creaked loudly, announcing to everybody the loser that walked in late, and everybody turned around.

I immediately spotted Tom Riddle in the corner of my eye. And Dumbledore stop talking to stare at me—

I nearly dropped my bag. I was so used to seeing Dumbledore with his long white beard and a wrinkled face I completely forgot that Dumbledore was once young. I always stupidly assumed that he was born old. His sharp blue eyes still penetrated my pupils, and I nearly went colorblind because his rich, reddish-auburn hair burning my eyes. It looked like he snipped off the tail of a red fox and clipped it on his chin. He didn't look like a wizard sage at all—he glowed with youth and his navy blue robe accentuated a slight feminine curve.

"Ah, Miss Belmont, I wondered when you would join us," Dumbledore said. I could see why half of the girls were lost in his eyes—but not me, because whenever Dumbledore looked at me with those frighteningly blue eyes, they were like painful icicles poking holes into my conscience.

I was about to sit down, but Dumbledore would have none of that. Like all teachers, they first have to punish you by embarrassing the whole class, as if the whole class already had their beady pupils on me.

"Miss Belmont, I understand that you may have lived a privileged life in France, but do not think that you are privileged enough to walk into my class as you please," Dumbledore said, clearly intending for the whole class to hear, "I would love to be enthralled by your reason as to why you walked in thirty minutes late."

The thing is, I was totally innocent of what he was accusing me. Dumbledore thought that I was Jean Belmont from France, who had spent a childhood in a luxurious mansion on a sunny hillside, adorned with frilly dresses.

"My reason?" I blinked stupidly. "I…"

I trailed off, feeling completely brainless. It was actually really hard to come up with a reason that didn't make me sound like a lazy slob. It's like trying to explain to somebody how you ended up procrastinating on a five month project. And when people ask how it happened, you can't come up for a good reason other than "I procrastinated". Of course, the pure, honest reason was _I was dreaming of you_, but how idiotic (and stalker-ish in a non-healthy sort of way) would that sound?

_Just suck it up_, my face burned with anger and embarrassment, _there's nothing else you can do_. I felt like the other students were secretly laughing at me too.

"Since you seem to follow your own schedule, I assume that you are well versed in standard O.W.L. transfiguration?" Dumbledore asked, "Why don't you come up here and teach the class if you feel you can waltz in whenever you please?"

"No, I—"

"I insist," Dumbledore interrupted, smiling calmly.

I stalked stiffly to the front of the room, with a burning revenge throbbing with each step.

"Wand out, please."

I fumbled through my schoolbag to find the dark brown stick of wood. I whipped it out. It felt so foreign in my right hand.

"Now face the classroom."

_Shit_, I realized, pointing the wand at the class, _I haven't practiced!_

"Now please demonstrate to us what transfiguration you want to teach to us today."

Not only did I not practice, but I didn't know any spells either. And being in front of all these students was like I was trying to practice a speech I hadn't rehearsed. Well, of course I knew the infamous Avada Kedavra, but as much as I wanted to, killing Dumbledore would only make the situation worse.

"Uh—_Alohomora_!" I waved the wand around like I was conducting a symphony.

Nothing happened.

Then everybody laughed for real. I wanted to go curl up in a hole and die.

"Oh dear," Dumbledore said in pure satisfaction, "it seems that the privileged not only have a poor sense of commitment, but apparently they are coddled into a false sense of confidence. May I request the pleasure of your company tomorrow evening to discuss your priorities?"

"Yes, sir." I had to spit each syllable out with intense effort, all the while resisting the urge to cry.

* * *

I hated everything.

As I stepped out of the Transfiguration classroom, I hated the young Dumbledore for stereotyping me as rich and spoiled. I hated the old Dumbledore for putting me in this damn situation. I hated Valetta and the stupid girls for their fake sympathy, and I hated everybody else who laughed at me because nobody understood. I hated that portrait who thought he could sing above the eighth octave. I hated that bearded ghost that floated by because he looked ugly and wore frills.

But most of all, I hated myself. I hated myself for being stupid enough to fall into that situation, and I hated how good it felt to blame everybody else when I knew deep down that it was my fault. I hated myself more for that too, that I couldn't accept responsibility for my own mistakes.

Brooding in my own hate, I stormed to the library alone to finish my research. The library still looked the same, except instead of a serene atmosphere filled with knowledge and light, the atmosphere likened to a retreat for a raging beast to lick its wounds and sulk after a humiliating defeat.

Lord Voldemort was there, reading _Great Wizarding Families A – G_ comfortably cushioned in a chair undisturbed. I hated him for being so handsome and flawless, and I hated how he could be at peace when I couldn't. I sat myself far away from as far as possible, and whipped out a quill, an ink bottle, and a piece of yellowed parchment.

At first I felt like tearing up the fibrous paper into pieces and snapping the quill in half and upturning all the furniture in the room, but then some voice in my head told me it would be best to use this free time wisely by working on my homework.

_Screw that._ I knew I'd probably end up procrastinating until the last minute. But I was too enraged to do homework. I wanted to write a poem, expressing my hate for the world and everybody in it. But that would take way to long to write about every single object, person, and place.

I surveyed the room. _What do I hate most?_

So thirty minutes later, instead of spending my time wisely like I should have, I spent it quietly cackling as I vented out my hate and anger.

**T**hat**  
O**ne  
**M**eaniehead

**R**eally Needs Therapy**  
I**diot on Influenza**  
D**oofus on Poop**  
D**ork on Pork**  
L**oser on Lemons**  
E**pitome of Epic Failures

I also took the time to draw a very detailed, ugly caricature of said person being shot down by F22 Raptors. It was immensely satisfying. That was the best thirty minutes of my life—in a state of delirious euphoria fueled by anger.

When I finished drawing in the last plane, I put down my quill and admired my work. At first it felt good, but then I felt bad, because it wasn't his fault that he got me in the situation (well it sort of was, but there were so many other contributing factors). And it was wrong of me to lash out on the wrong people.

_Maybe I should crumple this up and toss it in the wastebasket. No wait, I really like this F22 Raptor. Best drawing I've ever done. Now to add a couple machine guns—_

A high-pitched singsong voice interrupted my thoughts. "Whatcha do-ing?"

I glanced up. Valetta was actually alone—I didn't expect the social butterfly queen to visit me without her stupid friends. She peered in interested at the parchment in front of me. I was hoping she couldn't read upside down, because it would be pretty embarrassing if the French transfer student liked to write acrostic poems for fun and draw disturbing and violent sketches.

I tried to hide the parchment with my arm. "Nothing."

"Really."

Of course that just made her think that it was something. I didn't expect Valetta's ladylike fingers to be so quick and nimble. I tried to block her, but she darted around and snatched the paper.

"Oooh, what's this?" Valetta exclaimed as if it was the latest celebrity gossip magazine. "T-O-M R-I-D-D…"

And she just _had_ to spell it out loud. Tom Riddle must have had ultrasound hearing or something, because he glanced up from the book from all the way across the library.

"Oooh, I think somebody has a little something for You-Know-Who!" Valetta shrilled.

"It's not what you—give that back!" I leaped to grab the paper but she held it out of my reach.

_Stupid girl._ If had a-little-something, I wouldn't have drawn him being gunned down by plane. I tried to grab the paper, but she was fast. And taller than me. Her giggles became loud shrieks, and Riddle put the book down to make his way over here.

_Oh no, oh no. Please, PLEASE for the love of—_

"Excuse me," He interrupted. Valetta turned around.

"Oh hi To-om," She giggled girlishly, batting her eyelashes and twirling her hair with her free hand, "I didn't see you there!"

"This is a library, not a jungle for your horseplay."

Valetta, in her best efforts to help me hook up with Tom Riddle or something, shoved the piece of parchment in his bewildered hands. It was like she was a friend passing a love note to my crush for me or something—except it wasn't a love note, and after this, Tom Riddle would not be my dreamboy for a long, long time.

And then like the great friend she is, Valetta ran away so we could confess our deep love for each other in private. Riddle just stared at the paper, his face inscrutable. Maybe he wanted to laugh. Maybe he wanted to commend me for my artistic ability. Maybe he wanted to bash my head open.

The third option seemed most in character.

"Your vocabulary is rather limited," Riddle said dryly after what seemed like a long moment, "although I would personally recommend looking for other sources of inspiration to expand your somewhat limited scope of poetry. And your proportions need work—ears are not usually bigger than one's hands, you see."

"Do—do you want to keep it?"

Well, that was a dumb question.

Much to my surprised, he smiled politely. "I think I will, should it prove useful for later."

I watched my beautiful acrostic poem and doodle get folded up and tucked neatly away in his pocket.


	4. Six Feet Under

"_Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeit."_

_- Isiah Whitlock Jr.

* * *

_

You'd think I'd be in an unspeakable throbbing rage at Valetta for the acrostic poem mishap, but I was just feeling tired. Tired of everything—tired of Tom Riddle and his stupid games, tired of listening to Valetta and the Stupid Girls, tired of trying to keep up with all the lies and identities that ran faster than I could.

Shoving Tom Riddle and Dumbledore into another dimension of my mind, I focused on Slughorn, who jiggled about animatedly from steaming cauldron to cauldron.

"This," Slughorn gestured to a cauldron. Golden droplets playfully leaped above the surface like flying fish. "—is _Felix Felicis_, a cousin potion of what we are going to brew today. Now, it is important to distinguish between _Felix Felicis_ and _Braveria_ as their ingredients are remarkably similar, but their effects are very_, very_ different. Anybody know of what other ingredient besides the end of a mackled malaclaw that separates _Braveria_ from _Felix Felicis_? Yes, Miss Yveves?"

A girl with a serious face spoke without hesitation. "Lacewings are a vital ingredient to _Felix Felicis_, which accounts for its golden color while _Braveria_ is yellow due to—"

"Correct—fifteen points for Gryffindor. Unlike the _Felix Felicis_, the confidence uniquely characteristic to _Braveria_ is achieved by the addition of the whisker end of the niffler." Slughorn twirled the ends of his mustache with his stubby index finger. "Contrary to popular belief, _Braveria_ does not boost one's confidence but simply temporarily disables one's ability to feel fear. Braveria is a dangerous potion, a very dangerous potion indeed… several wizards have damaged their psyche beyond repair due to prolonged consumption."

Slughorn paused dramatically to scratch his belly-side.

"Now," continued Slughorn cheerily, "I want you start brewing _Braveria_ today, and stop when you reach the forty-eight hour simmering stage—"

The loud clanging of cauldrons, the shuffle of shoes rushing to back to the back cabinet for supplies, and the frantic flutter of pages deafened the rest of his sentence.

"So, what's it like living in France?" A boy next to me asked, as he measured the whisker of the niffler.

"Hmm." I leaned over the black Teflon pot, sniffing when I should have wafted, the potion which was supposed to turn a light, translucent yellow. "Why don't I just save myself some time and just pee in this cauldron?" I grumbled.

"Ho-ho! Cheeky like your father, eh?" Slughorn strode by. "Making a cauldronful is quite tricky to get right, see—even one extra clockwise stir will skew the entire potion…"

I glanced up at him, and smiled innocently.

"…but considering that pre-made _Braveria_ costs nearly seventy gallons a pint, for it's very much sought after—it's a guaranteed self-generating business!" Slughorn laughed jubilantly. "Bravery is hard to come by, Belmont, for true bravery comes from the heart…"

And then he toddled off.

"No kidding," I mumbled behind his back. "You'd have to be pretty brave in the first place to drink something that looks an awful lot like pee."

"So…" said whisker-niffler boy again, "Did you ever catch up with any veelas in France?"

Just avoid the stupid people and their stupid, nosy questions. My fragile, invented identity was always under constant attack in Harry Potter land. I just wanted to be left alone, but that was like trying to run away from my shadow that was now inevitably a part of me.

"But what will I do?" I pondered aloud. "I don't want sit with Valetta or anybody else, but I don't want to look like a loser all by myself either, and I can't want to go in the library, because You-Know-Who'll be there..."

"You-Know-Who?" inquired the Whisker-Niffler.

"You-Know-Nobody," I snapped, before regretting it. Just an innocent bystander, what did he ever do to deserve the bitch treatment? _I really need more sleep to improve my attitude and social skills_. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand and smiled sleepily at him. "Is this potion supposed to curdle like Gouda cheese?"

* * *

With my satchel warping my posture, I stepped into the Great Hall greeted by the expected glorious smell of sizzling meat and steaming pies, but greeted by nobody. Self pity flickered like a broken light bulb in a dark room.

_Why am I such a loser?_ I bit my lip.

_Well that can't be helped_, said a stronger voice. I shook myself of these emotionally abusive thoughts and took a strong step forward as if I'd taken a swig of _Braveria_. Strategically placing myself on the opposite end of the table where I sat yesterday, where I was sure Valetta would never find me. I strategically pulled out _On the Inquiry of Hagfolk_ and helped myself to some food.

"You're sitting on the wrong side of the table, you know." A soft voice floated into my right ear, where the echoes would still hum in my eardrums long after she spoke.

The Girl's doleful, brown eyes scrutinized me curiously. Her eyes were so large they practically took up her entire face. But maybe it wasn't the eyes that were large, but her bony face, and her shrunken and fragile self in comparison. Not only did she look sad from afar, but when you really got up close, her mouth curved downwards in a droopy frown.

"Huh?"

The Girl pointed to the brighter side of the room, where I sat yesterday. "The purebloods sit over there. This is where the muggle-borns sit."

"Oh, I don't remember anybody saying anything about that—" I stuttered, unsettled by her frankness and haunting features, "Is that a rule or something?"

To my surprise, she laughed a little, but her face didn't lighten any. "Technically no, it's not."

"Then why do people sit like that then?" What a strange custom these wizard folk had.

She shrugged. "Everybody just does," She laughed again. "There isn't really a reason why—it just does, I guess. They usually don't like to sit next to each other anyways, so it's 'bout good as any other rule."

I grinned. "Then do you mind if I sit here?"

"No, not at all! It's just… strange that a pureblood would want to sit with us." She looked as if she was going to say something more, but stopped.

"Well… uh." I was at a loss for what to say. Discomforted by depressing atmosphere, I turned my fork over and over on my plate, choreographing a ballet routine of silverware on a dish. This was probably the first time I was talking to somebody who wasn't pushing or pressuring me—my first conversation where I could almost be myself.

"My name's Jean. Jean Belmont," I found myself saying.

"I know of you. You're the transfer student." She smiled and nodded. "I'm Emily Poun."

I smiled back. _What should I say now?_ I wove the fork between the string beans. I thought of asking why she looked so sad, but that seemed rude. _Don't say anything that might provoke emotional wounds... you'll probably screw up your only chance at a normal conversation._ My eyes fell to her school bag, a yellow-blue bag that had been patched and sewn up in many places. I remembered the purebloods who were mocking her for it.

"Wow, this is such a pretty bag!" I reached out to feel the fabric; it was thin and thoroughly worn, but still quite durable. "Looks homemade too. Did you sew it yourself?"

"Actually…" she paused, "it used to be me dad's pants. Then me mum sewed into a dress for sometime before she turned it into a tablecloth. When I got the letter, we couldn't affor—buy a schoolbag so she decided to turn it into a satchel."

I couldn't believe it that it was possible for somebody to be so poor they had to recycle cloth over and over again like that. Was it the after-effects of the Great Depression or something? Nothing added up. How could there be feasts then?

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up—"

"No, it's fine. Don't worry 'bout it." Emily waved it away with a shrug of the shoulder. "It doesn't bother me anymore."

She turned to gaze at her empty golden plate, which reflected her blank face back.

"Aren't you hungry?" I couldn't resist asking.

"I am."

"Then eat!" I gestured to the fruitcake.

She shook her head. "I can't."

"Why?" I gaped at her in disbelief.

"I—I guess I'm feeling guilty." She seemed to shift out of reality as her voice gradually lost momentum. "My mum works night and day at the factories. I wasn't old enough to work before I got the letter, but I did whatever I could do—running to collect food stamps or scavenging for scrap metal 'round town…"

With a spoon stuck halfway in my mouth—that was the first time I stopped thinking of myself. I tried to imagine for a moment what it was like to be Emily. To suffer the effects of a war-torn muggle world, yet able to somewhat escape from it of her magical abilities. But at the same time, she could never really be accepted into the wizarding world either as a muggle-born. Stuck in the middle of two societies that shunned her, never fully able to identify with one another.

"Did you know," she said, her voice low, "We used to skip meals just to scrape by—I got used to living off such scarce food rations…I can't think of eating without thinking of me mum and cousins, still living off food stamps—what would they think of me, feasting like a selfish pig? And my mum, who deprives herself just to be able to afford to send me here?" Emily's voice trembled along with entire body.

I couldn't stand to look at her starved face anymore. I glanced at the boy who sat across from me. He looked like he was going to drown in his soup. And the girl next to him stared emotionlessly at her untouched shepherd's pie. I would have mistaken these sad children were sad, still statues if it weren't for an occasional sigh.

"Do you ever miss home?" I asked. I thought of my own home. My mom. My dad. As if I'd miss them. As if they'd miss me.

"It's not much better back home anyways. Nothing much happens, except for maybe the headlines in the news and the scrap metal drives, with the war and all."

"What war?" I almost slapped myself for forgetting, but the words were out before I could take them back.

Emily turned to face me, eyebrow raised. "Against Germany?"

"Oh."

I examined the dark slab of bread in my hand. Pores breathed within the sponge bordered by an even darker dried crust. How I took this bread for granted.

Then it sunk in. Strange that I studied all this history in school without giving it a second thought. It wasn't just a vocabulary term, a date to memorize for the test, or a chapter of a textbook. It wasn't just a name, a number, a statistic. It was real people who suffered, real people who starved—real people who _died _during the 1940s.

I dropped the bread. I didn't feel like eating anymore.

The purebloods were still laughing and smiling. In an atmosphere so brightly lit it all seemed so surreal. It's interesting how one can still carry on perfectly fine and happy while his or her neighbor is slipping into the fissures of the earth. But nobody would step in the situation, nobody would be willing to stop the suffering until it was too late.

"You get used to it." Emily said after a while; she must have noticed me staring at the happy people. "After a while you really don't feel anything at all."

A blurred figure became a familiar dark, curly haired girl bouncing up and down the aisle followed by the Stupid Girls. Emily wiped her eyes and face.

"Oh, Jean!" Valetta exclaimed. "We're going to the toilet—come with us!"

"Yes, come with us!" The Stupid Girls chorused.

"Uh—sure, I guess." I hopped after her. I couldn't exactly say no—I suppose it's another unofficial social thing that might as well be a rule as well. I mumbled an awkward good-bye to Emily.

Turns out, Valetta and the Stupid Girls didn't even need to use the bathroom. They just wanted to chit-chat and fix their looks in front of the mirror.

I don't understand why girls love mirrors. The mirror only reflects me the things that I want to forget about myself; it only serves to remind me of the things I wish that didn't belong to me. Sometimes when I look at my own reflection I wonder if it's really me who's looking back. I look real hard and think to myself, _is this really the body that houses all my thoughts and emotions?_ because all I see is another soulless stranger staring back at me. And the more I look into the mirror, the uglier and uglier I get, and the more I hate myself.

So I tried not hard not to look into the mirror as I watched Valetta and the Stupid Girls, standing in the background of their conversation and wondering if I turned invisible.

"Have you seen any boys you might like yet?" Stupid Girl No. 2 pouted her lips out.

"It's only my first week of school." I replied, shocked. "Isn't that kinda early?"

"So?" Stupid Girl No. 1 said. "All you need to do is look at them and figure out whether you might like them or not."

"What about that Tom Riddle lad?" Valetta teased. "What'd he say when he read your love sonnet?"

"No—"

"Aw, she's all shy and blushy." Stupid Girl No 2 giggled. "Don't worry, you can trust us—we're all sisters here."

"History'll be starting soon," said Stupid Girl No 1. "Shall we go together?"

"Go on ahead, I need to tell Jean something." Valetta pulled out a tube of lipstick. "We'll catch up in a moment."

The Stupid Girls left. With her back to me and her face to the mirror, I watched Valetta neatly apply a bright red paint to her upper lip.

"That _wasn't_ a love sonnet, you know," I informed her in an attempt at self-affirmation. "And I do _not_ have the hots for Riddle."

"Now, don't get all mad at me for getting you lovesnidgets together. In fact, you'll thank me for it someday."

I gave up and changed the subject. "Where do you get all this makeup, anyway?"

"I live with three elder sisters and my mum." She began to carefully outline her bottom lip.

"What about your dad?"

Valetta flinched, her hand jumping along with her whole body. A scandalous red slash of lipstick ran across her cheek. It stained her otherwise perfect glacial complexion, like an ugly mark on her carefully structured reputation.

Her eyes widened. "P-P-Pri-Priapus? H-he treats me well."

"Anyway, that doesn't matter." Valetta said quickly. She frantically twisted the knob at the nearest sink but water refused to spurt from the spout. "Why were you sitting with the mudbloods?"

She moved to the next sink, briefly wetting her hand before wiping the smudge of lipstick off her cheek. When Valetta turned around to face me, her pink left cheek looked like somebody had slapped her.

"You really shouldn't be hanging out with mudbloods like that."

"She seemed nice enough though."

"You'll be staining your reputation if you get too close with trash like them folk." Valetta sniffed in disdain. "Those good-for-nothings—they shouldn't even belong here in the first place. All they do is stain our school, and bring their war troubles with them. They really should go back to where they belong. Hogwarts is for true wizards only."

I should have stood up for Emily. I should have defended the one person who needed it the most. But to my horror, I found myself agreeing with her. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

* * *

I opened the door gingerly. "Professor?"

Dumbledore glanced up from his desk and smiled when it saw it was me. "Ah, Miss Belmont." He neatly set his quill down, stood up, and walked around to the front his oval Oakwood desk. "Please have a seat."

I sat down in the closest desk up front.

"Would you like some tea?" asked the auburn-haired wizard conversationally. "Fijn's finest—a personal favorite of mine."

I shook my head, but a miniature tea set appeared in front of me anyway, suspended in midair. With a little flick of his wand, the pink floral-printed teapot inclined and a stream of dark, syrup-colored steaming liquid into the teeny silver teacup. The air suddenly smelled of jasmine, mint, and roast beef.

Dumbledore smiled. "Do try it, for Fijn is known for his marvelous talent for concocting a great variety of heart-warming teas. It'll do wonders to calm your nerves."

Suspicious, I hesitantly took the teacup. Its warmth traveled from my fingertips to my toes in an instant. I lifted the teacup to my lips and pretended to took a sip. Dumbledore eyed me closely, his golden rimmed spectacles sparkling like twin magnifying glasses. Then a crazy thought came to me. _Shit. Maybe he spiked with something. Naw, he's not THAT evil… I hope._

"You seemed sort of upset yesterday when you stormed out of the classroom," Dumbledore began. "Is there a problem? A personal problem, perhaps, you wish to discuss?" He folded his willowy arms into the shape of an anorexic pretzel.

"Not at all." I tried to swallow the fat lump in my throat. Yesterday didn't bother me at all. Much.

Dumbledore didn't look convinced. I really need to improve my lying ability. Maybe I can arrange private lessons with Riddle sometime and we can call it a date.

"Jean," he said gently, as if he wanted to get personal or something, "If there is indeed a problem, please do tell me. I am your teacher, and I care for my students. I sincerely do not wish there to be a miscommunication between a teacher and his student. Why do you hold back?"

I almost spilled everything I held inside out just then—all my emotions, all my uncertainties, all my vulnerabilities. I guess I was just so used to confiding to the other Dumbledore with my worries and woes it'd be instinctual I'd almost respond like that.

"I—"

But then I remembered that I was talking to the Dumbledore that didn't know me at all, the Dumbledore who was fifty years younger, and the Dumbledore who had no idea who Tom Riddle would become. I missed the _real_ Dumbledore, whose gentle, understanding eyes twinkled like stars, and not this _imitation_ of the Dumbledore I needed, whose eyes were guarded by an ocean-blue stained glass.

Nobody would believe me. Nobody would ever understand. Not ever. I gripped the handle of the teacup tight.

"I'm not holding back on anything," I insisted. "I just lost track of time, that's all. Really, sir. You're acting as if I'm suffering from deep emotional trauma or something—I was just late for class…"

An intense staring competition followed. He was totally he was expecting me to crack and tell him everything. I glared back at him. _No way, José. I have more dignity than that, you know._

"Very well then." Dumbledore nodded to the door. "If that is all, you may go if you wish." "But if you ever need somebody to consult—"

"Of course." I stood up abruptly. "Thanks for the tea."

But just before I could turn around—

"Although I am rather curious—yes, very curious indeed—how a French child like yourself, born and raised in France under the care of two full pure-blooded French wizard parents…" Wearing a contemplative expression, Dumbledore tugged on his red foxtail beard. "Indeed, how does French native come to sport an American accent so naturally?"

_Sheeeeeeeit._

"Well, I uh… had an American governess since I was little—"

Come to think of it, why hadn't it occurred to me that pretending to be a French student meant that I would have to imitate a French accent? Eejit.

"Personally having traveled to both lovely countries America and France every other summer myself, I am indeed very curious how this came to be." Dumbledore smiled. "In fact, I even question… _parlez vous français_?" He looked at me expectantly.

"Touché entrée coup d'état soufflé papaya," I burbled, and then I bolted for the door.

* * *

_That was close._ My stride quickened, still in trembles as I tried to gather myself. Except for the fire torches attached to the sides of the walls, the corridors were nearly pitch black. Night had fallen and somebody had sprinkled magical fairy dust for the sleeping portraits. Stupid Dumbledore, why'd he have to keep me behind for so long?

"Good evening." A figure stepped out of the shadows from behind a stolid statue.

A rude jolt disconnected the weight from my body. "Geez, you scared the pants off of me."

I snuck a peek back to the spot where he had camouflaged himself in. Did he wait for me, or was this purely coincidental?

Hands courteously juxtaposed behind his back, Riddle glided directly in front of me with a smooth step. My innards groaned. I just barely survived an interrogation a couple minutes ago. No way I could I live through another one. I looked up to him, as he looked down on me.

And Voldy-Moldy just stood there.

"Uhm." I coughed awkwardly. "Can I help you?"

"Are you avoiding me? Afraid, perhaps?" Riddle queried, still unmoving. "I cannot possibly fathom an explanation for your cold shoulder treatment—I'd say it's rather unfair—what I could have possibly done to receive such hospitality?"

The shadows under his eyes elongated as he smiled.

"Can I get by here?" I was too tired to put up with this.

"What tale shall you possibly entertain me with today?" The stubborn obstruction refused to budge an inch. "Are you Potter or Belmont today? Or perhaps Professor Conman?"

"I'm quite myself today, thank you very much." I said simply. "Can I go now?"

"Mutiple personality disorder is a serious affliction, from what I've read," Riddle continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Have you considered confiding in anybody else of this matter?"

That musical hilt of Riddle's voice bordered on sardonic, coupled with that sunshine smile of his. Except that in the dark his sunshine smile wasn't really sunshiny at all.

"You know what, it's setting late. I really should go get going—" I tried to duck under his arm, but Riddle quickly sidestepped. "I'm kinda tired too"—I tried again to escape—"and I've got lots of work to do so—"

"No you don't." He snarled and lunged. In a flash he pinned me to the wall. "Don't think you can get away—I'll make you pay, insolent little—"

Then, suddenly self-aware that his evil self was coming out, he uncurled and fitted out his facial features to one of a cordial gentleman.

"I feel as if," Riddle said, speaking fluidly as though in a regular conversation and totally not holding somebody against their will, "we've started on the wrong foot, as so they speak."

I squirmed uncomfortably, trying to escape, but his long, pale fingers fastened my right shoulder against the wall. "I—"

"What do you say," said Riddle with a disarming smile as he faced me, "that we start anew as friends?"

I could recite a million things about the future Lord Voldemort that terrified me beyond sanity, but nothing could compare to his eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the firelight, but his eyes weren't even eyes at all—just two twin black, pupil-less pools of eternal nothingness located where the windows of his soul happened to be. No life, no light could permeate Tom Riddle's eyes.

"I'm fine," I managed to utter. The spots where his needle fingers dug into my shoulder blade were starting to burn.

Riddle angled his head, his gaze unmoving. "I have several redeemable and valuable qualities if you choose to engage in such a mutually beneficial relationship."

He sounded like he was filling in a job application or something. It was hard to think with the waves of his body heat that kept overpowered all my senses, such as my common sense. I think I nearly drowned, or suffocated. Too much of Riddle in one day.

"If by friends you mean scaring the shit out of me and then physically overpowering me then yes, let's continue our relationship."

"You know, friends—" Riddle pressed his body closer, just when I thought he couldn't get any closer. "—tell each other secrets."

The way the last word rolled of his tongue, sweet like a candy caramel, alluring like a whispers of hard alcohol…my spine turned to goo just then.

"Uhmm," I murmured, barely conscious.

"Would you like to know a secret of mine?"

"I…suppose it wouldn't hurt."

"I can speak to snakes." A grin flickered across his face as he eyed me for my reaction.

Despite my kneecaps liquefying, I let out a psychotic laugh. His attempt to intimidate me, fail. "Is that all?" I snorted. "I already knew that."

"How—"At first Riddle seemed stunned. He glowered down at me, guarded and cautious.

"Your mother abandoned you at birth, so you have to live in a shabby orphanage in London. What else is there to know? I already know everything that you could possibly share."

_And more._ I wondered if he knew about the whole scandal with the love potion and his father whom he would later murder. Should I tell him then, or keep him innocent by sparing the knowledge he would be better off without?

"How—how do you know all this? I've never told anybody—no, nobody could possibly know—unless…"His features contorted with anger. I can't say that I didn't enjoy the usually smooth-slick Voldemort in confusion.

The dots connected on his face. "_Dumbledore. _He sent you, didn't he," he hissed. "He sent you to spy on me! I didn't think that old toad would stoop that low." He sneered, his lopsided grin curling.

I couldn't exactly deny his words, because they were true—just not in the context he was thinking of. "No, I went because I fail at magic and he had to talk to me about my priorities. You saw me flunk transfigs today."

"You're planning something. You're planning to—" Riddle stuttered, clogged with rage. He whipped out his wand and pointed it at my cheek.

"What…" he said, cool and collected and even smiling again, if not a bit dementedly, "did Dumbledore tell you?"

Have you ever been so afraid, so afraid that fear wasn't fear anymore, but the fear fused with the adrenaline rush of the moment to create an addictive high? Where under the torture of psychological pain your mind seemed to separate from your body,? With his body locking mine in place against the wall and wand on my cheek, I know that I should have been afraid, but instead a strange calmness overtook me.

"He asked me why I was late, that all." I even dared to look straight in those dark eyes boring into mine, even if it scalded my brain.

"Are you afraid?" he jeered, with that sadistic, monstrous grin I saw the first time I met him. "Do you have any idea what I can do to you, to make you wish beyond all desires you had never defied me in the first place? It's such a shame that such a pretty face must fall victim due to its careless owner."

"Not really." I shrugged.

He gawked at me like I was a whack job, which given the situation, I probably was. He seemed dumbfounded, like as if he had reached a stump in his calculations. Apparently he had predicted the wrong reaction.

Leaning so close our nose the tips of our noses were almost touching, his whispery breath warm and soothing—"I could kill you right now, and nobody would ever find out." Smiling, he turned his wand counterclockwise, implementing little spiral marks in my cheek.

_Too bad I'm already dead, buddy-boy._

"Death isn't the end of all things, you know. Death allows for new life. Once you've overcome death there isn't really anything to be scared of anymore," I said, reminding myself oddly of Dumbledore.

Riddle's face drew to a blank. He searched something else to scare me with, as if he could somehow extract the truth by staring straight into my eyes.

"It doesn't have to hurt," He said softly, his fingers gently running over my collarbone. "Just tell me what I need to know."

"I'm not—" His hand slid lower. Physically, it was quite enjoyable.

"What did Dumbledore order you to do?" Riddle's gaze dropped to my lips as if he was going to kiss me. "What are you conspiring about, my pretty one?"

_Tell the truth_, my body begged. I can't handle it. _No_, my mind shouted. _You can't give in. He can't know. He musn't. Hold on a little longer. _

_No. I must. The truth. It must come out._ My insides couldn't hold the pressure anymore, the truth I'd been holding in for so long, the lies I'd been spewing like there was no tomorrow. All those situations I had faked my way through finally turned on me.

I opened my mouth to let everything go, and like the Great Flood…

…I threw up all over his secondhand uniform

Riddle leapt back, drenched in the half-digested bile. "Augh, revolting—"

"I'm—I'm really sorry," I managed to warble. With wobbly legs, I dashed off to the girls bathroom to relieve the rest of the pressure, leaving Riddle to wipe off the goop off his chest.

_That bastard._ I leaned over the sink. Leave it to Tom Riddle to hold a book hostage and exploit a girl's unstable hormones for answers.

* * *

I awoke enveloped in darkness. Not even a molecule of light to guide my sight, only the pungent stench of rotting flesh.

_What the—? Why am I in a box?_

Four blind spidery limbs explored my surroundings. The moist, moss-damp walls threatened my fingertips with splinters.

_You're trapped. It's no use._

My breathing grew faster. _Where? Why?_

And amidst the panic attack, a calm voice spoke clearly, as if I had known it all along:

_You've been buried alive._

I clawed the corners of the coffin; clinging onto the hope I'd be able to pry it loose, clinging by a hangnail onto my long-lost illusion of life. My cheeks grew wet as the scratches grew louder and more desperate. Blood seeped underneath my fingernails.

_This is it._ I was going to die here. Die of isolation, of insanity, and nobody would ever know that I was still alive even after all this time, that it wasn't too late for me.

_No! I can't. Not yet! Please, I'm not ready to die!_

The instinct to live kicked in. I kicked the coffin lid hard.

_Thmp. Thmp. Thmp._

_Crack! _Fresh earth poured in. _Squish_, the worms wiggled their way in to claim the rest of the half-decayed corpse. C_rinkle_, the beetles skittered inside to call dibs on the eyeballs—_my_ eyeballs, would they wait 'till I was dead?

I kicked harder._ I have to get out._

And then, in mountains, the dirt poured in to occupy the free volume. I screamed, but no sound came out. Soil forced its way down my mouth and throat, until I could feel stones in my stomach. It clogged my nose and ears. Suffocated beneath six feet of earth, fossilized in a half-scream still stuck, that's how I would end.

_I'm… not… ready… please._

* * *

Heels striking first, barefooted toes crumbling the clumps of damp sand, I hesitantly strolled on the sandy beach. Pregnant with silvery tadpole tears, the stratosphere clouds sagged low in the horizon. On one side, several tall gray prisms of varying heights congested in smog—a city. It stood a tomb, a testament to humanity's mark on the physical environment. And on the other side, the dark, murky enigma that was the ocean—nobody knew what lay underneath nor beyond the ocean. And where I stood, the beach existed as an awkward middle of two great opposites of nature.

"Dumbledore," I said aloud.

Foaming at the edges, the waves whooshed and whispered. I watched each wave come in and out, lulled by its rhythmic cycle. City and ocean. Air and water. Life and death. I shivered, even though I wasn't cold. Each time the waves crept closer and closer, until I would be inevitably engulfed by the mouth of the monster that was Death.

"You called?" said he simply. The familiar white bearded, purple-robed figure sat crossed legged facing the water. I plopped myself next to him, staring intensely at the view in front of me but afraid to look directly at him because of what he might say.

Dumbledore started humming. Déjà vu, much.

"What happened to Ronald?" I asked, noticing that his furry robotic friend was absent.

"Oh," Dumbledore said brightly, "He eloped. Yes, Ronald is currently enjoying his honeymoon with his newfound bride—"

"He—_what?_ How is that even possible? Where the heck would a Furby go on a honeymoon, let alone in get married in the first place?"

For a moment I seriously wondered whether Ronald did really fall in love or whether this was just Dumbledore living in his own pretend world where he had imaginary grandchildren and now a married Furby.

"Regrettably he was not able to invite you—it was such on a short notice! But ah," said Dumbledore with a romantic sigh, "for love can turn even the most sensible head of a man."

"What the—" I gaped at him. Ronald was a Furby, not a man! Then I shook my head. "I don't even know why I talk to you anyways. You're batshit senile most of the time anyway."

Silence. Dumbledore started rummaging through his pocket.

Folding my legs and resting my chin on my elbow, I half mumbled, "This is pathetic. I don't have anybody else to talk to so I'm stuck with you. It—it kind makes me feel like a loser." I sniffed and buried my nose in my arm. "Sometimes…sometimes I wish I could have somebody real to talk to."

"You are the one forcing yourself to talk to me. Why don't you wake up and converse to your real friends if you are looking for something substantial?" said Dumbledore. His voice seemed distant, as if he was preoccupied with something else.

"It's just that—" I sniffed again and wiped my eyes. "Nobody else really understands me like you do, you know? Nobody, not ever, not anywhere, has ever really cared to understand. I really my own best fri—uhm…_ why are you playing with Barbies?!_" It pissed me off that while I was pouring my heart and soul he was playing with dolls and not taking me seriously.

Dumbledore had taken out a blond, terribly messy-haired Barbie and a Ken doll and sat them upright, their plastic butts wedged in the sand. Patting each on the head, he giggled gleefully like a little girl, which was strangely out of character for a 120-year old something wizard sage. I squinted my eyes at him.

"Wait a minute." Something wasn't right. With fumbling fingers, I snatched the Ken doll. Its lifeless, plastic dark eyes stared back at me and as I held in my hand. He was missing pupils. The doll's dark hair wasn't made out of that cheap, plastic fiber but made out of some soft, organic thread—what felt like…_real hair._ The unnaturally pale waxy complexion, the smooth curves of his hollowed cheeks—it was too creepily accurate to be a coincidence. Something was very wrong indeed.

"These—these are voodoo dolls!" I shot a look at Dumbledore, who held a plastic pink little brush in his hand for the female.

_Dumbledore had voodoo dolls all along. Dumbledore had voodoo dolls all along._ My heart pounded in my mouth. No wonder he knew everything. I glared accusingly at the culprit, who was happily humming as he attempted to untangle the blonde, matted mop of hair.

"Just a little piece of those whom I treasure dearly… Oh, poor Jenna… so inexperienced, so naive…" Dumbledore murmured. He put the tiny hairbrush down and tried to tame the untamable hair.

"Who's Jenna?" I scoffed, resentful and sulky. Then I laughed. "Another one of your victims? Another innocent teenager manipulated to do your bidding?"

Dumbledore turned on me, his lip in a firm, pinched line and his wrinkled fingers gnarled around the doll. Although his gaze, still reminiscent of his old patient and kind self, his face began to diverge into an unfamiliar one so uncharacteristic of the humming, smiling Dumbledore.

"You made the choice. You _chose_ to partake on this mission, did you not?"

"Yeah but..." I bleated, "You never told me anything—nothing about what I might come up against. You were so damn ambiguous about the whole damn thing, and my emotions... I was so confused too..."

I scrunched up my face. I couldn't actually remember if I actually made the choice—everything seemed to plunge into one after another, all these foreign forces that invaded and before I knew it, one lie built off another to form a creaky, unstable foundation of a life. But it was all so confusing, the first time I had met Dumbledore on the cliff, I was so innocent, so susceptible to manipulation…. I had no idea of what was coming… it all happened so fast…

"No. You tricked me." I felt as if I'd been strutting around this whole time with a dagger implanted in my back I and I hadn't realized it until now. "You targeted the exact words that you knew that would make me break down and cry. And then, when I was most vulnerable, you guilted me into this. You—" I pointed a finger and glared at him. No way could he pin this back at me like he always did.

Dumbledore sighed and put the Barbie down. "You carved your own path, dearest one—and what motive could I possibly have, what could I possibly gain from what you are accusing me of?"

"How should I know?" I spat. "Who knows what else you're hiding from me."

"You could have said no. Why didn't you?"

"Because… because—" Dammit, how did he turn this back on me?

"Think back to moment. You had to freedom to say no—you were acting perfectly out of your own free will…"

I cringed. That Jean was from so long ago. "Because... I thought I could—that I could somehow…" My voice cracked. "—change things back to the way they were. Redeem myself and be happy again…" I hung my head.

"Do you see these pebbles?" He pointed at the pebbles at the ground, the pebbles that were constantly pushed back and forth wave after wave. I nodded.

"Each wave is an experience—a tragedy, a hardship, a death of loved one—that hits the pebble, tossing it back and forth. Did you know what these pebbles used to be?"

"Rocks broken off from cliffs?" I guessed.

"Precisely. These pebbles weren't always pebbles, you know. They were once great, majestic chunks of rock that eventually succumbed to these waves. And as each wave came around and left, eventually these rocks began to take shape, take identity as they were molded by their experiences into this—" He opened up his palm and held it out.

I gasped. A smooth, pearly pebble rested peacefully in the center of his palm. I gently clasped it within my own palms. Turning it over and over, running my thumb over its creamy curves, I marveled how the waves could turn a large chunk of rock into a tiny pebble.

"Is that it, then?" I asked, disappointed. "Our experiences grind us until we become grains of sand?"

Dumbledore gestured toward the pebble. "He is in your hands now."

I turned the pebble over and over between my fingers. Did I really have the ability to change him?

"I understand now." I thought I would cry, but I didn't.

There was no redemption for this wretched soul. I was doomed to suffer the permanent consequence for my stupidity. This wasn't about saving myself from that eternal punishment, but it was about saving him from the same fate I was ultimately headed to.

I finally met Dumbledore eye to eye. And when Dumbledore smiled, his saddened eyes glittered a kind of numinous understanding that mirrored all the emotions ever experienced, the sort of understanding that made me finally understand myself, because essentially, I was looking at myself.

* * *

**The Epic, Untold Tale of Tom Riddle's Secret Love Life that Nobody Knew About that Ends Tragically Because Riddle Forgot He Was Incapable of Love  
(in seven minutes)**

_Composed by Jean_

_The scene opens with a girl and a boy giving each other death glares, arms crossed immaturely, in a battle of wits to out-insult each other._

**Tom:** I hate you!**  
Jean:** I hate you, too!**  
Dumbledore: **A plot device! _(scampers off)_

_--Two Minutes Later--_

**Tom:** Suddenly, by some irrational change of character, I love you!  
**Jean:** I love you, too! Let's fornicate.  
**Tom:** Yippee, I'll go get my Batman costume!

--_Five Minutes Later--_

**Tom:** Wait a minute, I forgot I'm incapable of love! _(whips out wand)_ _Avada Kedavra!_

_Exit Tom, with Jean sprawled dramatically on the floor._

_Exeunt._

"See, it even sounds wrong in your head," I mumbled aloud. I shoved my hands into my pockets, and overturned a clump of grass with my toe. "Stop fantasizing about him already."

Stupid, stupid Tom Riddle. No matter what I did, no matter what distraction method I applied, the other night kept replaying over and over again, like a broken record player on an infinite rewind. Although mentally I was about to crack, physically my body craved for another round. I wanted to feel that sensation that only he could give me again, even if it meant at the cost of destroying my sanity.

My insides grew hot as I recalled the memory of Tom Riddle's charismatic grin as he leaned closer, his heated body pressed against mine, as slowly drew me into a kiss…

"Ugh, stop it!" I shouted, screwing my eyes tight and pressing both palms against my ears. "_See_, that's exactly what he wants. He wants turn into you to a blind infatuated sap so he'd be able to squeeze information from you without even trying."

_Oh._ I opened my eyes and let my arms drop. _That's right..._ He never was really interested in at all. Only interested in using me, and then dropping me when he couldn't milk benefits from me anymore. Asshole. He could control people so well he didn't even need to be around them to make them behave—he was that good, that master snake charmer of all things snake and beyond.

"Still…" That was the first time a guy had come onto me like that, flattered me exactly the way I wanted to be flattered… it was only natural that I let my guard down, I wasn't expecting it at all. Still—

"You're pathetic." A nastier, more embittered but more realistic Jean took charge. "He never liked you. He only wanted his revenge. Why're you getting all hopeful for? You knew it all along, and you're still hoping, you pathetic excuse for life—"

"Jean? Are you—uhm—alright?" A concerned voice and a tap on my shoulder interrupted my thoughts. I spun around. Emily, garlanded with a bronze-blue scarf tucked neatly around her neck, looked at me at worriedly. Her eyes were wider than usual, fringed with wisps of brown hair.

"Oh hi, Emily!" Hoping that she hadn't heard any of that, I tried to cover it up with a grin. Nothing more embarrassing being caught wandering around and talking to yourself. "What's up?"

"Herbology is _that_ way." She pointed the opposite direction I had been facing. The concern never disappeared from her face.

"Haha, whoopies! Had a little out-of-it moment back there." I forced a laugh, and bounded next to her.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Her large eyes were starting to gnaw at my conscience, as we strolled side by side toward the greenhouses.

"Mm-hmm." _He smiles and beckons; I can almost feel the tickle of his eyelashes…his warm frame just about to engulf mine..._

"Did you read the section on Dhicheads and Deuschbags Professor Beery assigned us? I thought it was rather confusing."

"Hmm." _He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and delicately outlines my jaw with his caressing hand—_

"ACK! Damn you, Riddle!"

* * *

_Author's Babbles...lmao Dumbledore's appearing in this story so much I might as well make it Albus D/OC. I can't help it, his character comes so naturally and it's way too much fun writing him I can't stop. I promise to cut back his appearances onward as Jean becomes more attached to the real/materialistic world. Dumbledore's character is way too easy to exploit! XD I think I've ruined the respectability of his character lol._

_Going to take a one week break and read fanfiction on here, some I haven't done in a long time and I miss doing. It'll probably take me one week to outline the next chapter and write up the rough draft, and two more weeks to edit it. Bleh. So we're looking at three-ish weeks 'till the next update? And thank you wonderful readers for keep poking at me to update, that really gets my lazy ass moving ahaha. Those are very encouraging and they actually work. XD_

_Thanks for reading, have a fab day! :)_


	5. Given Up The Ghost

_How does such a small cut produce so much blood?_

I gripped my forearm to keep my life from spilling out. It still seeped through my fingers anyway.

Right. Then left. Then right again.

"Where're you going? I thought it was this way." I had to jog to keep up with his long, easy strides.

"This is a—shortcut."

My entire arm pulsated and sobbed for some sort of catharsis. Keeling over, I clamped my arm between my legs, trying to suffocate the assailing throbs.

_Ow, ow, ow…_

He spun on his heel and clicked his tongue impatiently. "Come along, now."

"I-I'll be right there—oof!"

_Thunk!_

Trying to hop a one-footed was not one of my brighter ideas; I ended up performing a face-plant with such finesse it ought to have been captured in slow-mo for educational purposes. My face and the flecks of white granite conjoined under gravity's inexorable shove.

_Double ow._

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to expel the massive, oncoming concussion which I knew I was going to suffer tomorrow. Somewhere from a couple feet away, a snort-laugh reverberated throughout the hallway.

_Clompity, click. Clompity, click. Clompity, click._

The progression of footsteps grew louder until the cadence abruptly halted, save for its dying echoes. I opened my eyes just a crack. Sure enough, the tips of his well-polished, black shoes pervaded my peripheral vision at a totally lick-able distance.

"Alright there?"

"Just dandy."

The headslam was an apt wake-up call. _Gah!_ I would have smacked myself but the floor already did that for me.

_He has you alone, again! How could you have been so gullible?  
_

I was completely vulnerable. With my face flattened against the floor, my arm wedged between my legs, and a of butt cheeks protruding in the air—overall, I assessed, not a very attractive position to be in.

_Jean, how do you even get yourself into these situations? _I closed my eyes again, wishing the stone floor would turn anything but solid. This was the pinnacle of a really cruddy week, really.

Let's recap, shall we?

* * *

We all have our little nooks. You know, little failsafe retreats where you can be free of judgment when the jumbo universe overwhelms you with shit.

Mine used to be the Hogwarts library, but ever since Riddle and his cronies basically steamrolled in there _Blitzkrieg _style, I had to re-locate. I mean seriously, who can unwind when you have a potential serial killer slash dictator slash sociopath and his flock of pureblood maniacs breathing down your neck and constantly uprooting people from their seats if they weren't of proper lineage?

I accidentally stumbled upon mine after Charms class, when my eyes fell upon a narrow corridor that time-pressed students glossed by. It was dark and dimly lit, but in a way that was tragically romantic—the possibility of unexplored territory enticed me. The weird thing though, was that didn't seem to have an end. In my idle time, I'd stroll down the corridor in a straight line (that was the only direction one could go), meeting neglected portrait after neglected portrait of people from history. But then curfew would make me retrace my steps, and I'd say goodbye to each and every painting, thanking them for their time and for listening to my rambles.

In central walkways of the castle, the portraits would yawn, scratch their noses, and even talk amongst themselves, but not these paintings—they couldn't even move except for their eyes, which would sort of follow you as you went from place to place.

Yeah, I know that sounds creepy, but in the world where abnormal was normal, who was I to re-draw boundaries?

"The first week he does nothing but stalk me, and now it's like, I don't even exist anymore," I sniffled. Felix Summerbee, a poised, bulbous-nosed elderly man, rotated his eyes from the right to focus forward. I paused so he could answer—I mean, sure I knew he couldn't actually talk back, but that didn't mean the lights were all out upstairs.

"Yeah, I get what you're saying. If I got puked on and constantly insulted on, I wouldn't exactly be tripping to see the person either. It's just that…oh, I don't know! I thought we were making progress, and now…" I tossed my arms up in the air.

Perhaps Sir Summerbee's pupils filled with empathy, but in the dim lighting it was hard to discern.

I wheeled around in muddled circles before finally slumping against the wall, slapping a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. I sounded some like a whiney, attention-deprived girlfriend.

Two weeks.

Two eye-blurring, hallucination-infested, nerve-shot weeks. Plenty of time to let my overactive imagination run wild with fantasies of potential ploys that Riddle could pull to wreak his revenge.

_He's going to get you. You know he will._

But… nothing. The only thing worse than Tom Riddle raping me in my sleep, dragging me into the forbidden forest by the hair, or dismembering my appendages was... well, not doing anything at all. It drove me crazy. It was like he peeled himself from me like a crusty pair of socks, stowed me under his bed, and just left me there to rot away with the dust bunnies.

Out of the corner of my eye, the portrait of Xavier Skartherald's arm twitched.

"So, Xavier!" I strolled over. "Have you seen any suspicious activity that ought to illicit further investigation?"

Skartherald blinked and rolled his eyes at me.

"I guess nothing much happens here, huh."

"They aren't capable of having a proper conversation, you know," said a voice behind me. I jumped out of my shoes.

A ghost was peering down at me. He wore a bouncy ruff of a ridiculous radius, and nearly disciplined curls rested under a large plumed hat. Color and volume had bled out of the contours of his translucent form.

"I-I knew that," I stammered. I wondered why he was so tall until I realized he was elevated a good foot above the ground. "I was just, uh, exploring the castle?"

"Why, there are several more interesting nooks and crannies to be explored! You oughtn't confine yourself to this dreary place," he said, smiling good-naturedly. "I thought perhaps for a moment you were one of those Comstock crazies."

"Actually," I admitted, "I'm just lonely."

For some reason it's easier to confide in a stranger than a friend, because then if my emotional projections got rejected it wouldn't hurt because I would never have to see the person again.

"Well, I'd be happy to help you pass a droll Thursday afternoon, pupil of Rowena Ravenclaw." He began to nod but his head literally popped off and rolled sideways, save for a stubborn sinew of flesh that prevented the nearly decapitated head from disconnecting entirely from his body.

"Whoopsies!" he propped his head upright. "Sorry you had to see that."

My eyeballs bulged, my jaw agape at the generous close-up of dried human flesh and bone. "You—you're Nearly Headless Nick!"

"It's Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington to you," the ghost said with a reproachful sniff. "Although I suppose I must also answer to my insensitively coined sobriquet. Centuries of subjecting to such ridicule! It's almost a term of endearment, I say."

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that—"

"Would you like to see it again?" Eager with anticipation, Nick outstretched a fine gloved hand on his head.

"No, I'm good," I said loudly (for some reason, Nick looked disappointed). Wanting to change the subject, I asked, "So, how come the paintings don't move?"

"Why, when I was still alive—mind you, it was quite some time ago—wizards were still experimenting with crafting motion on canvass." Nick's face brightened as he divulged into explanation on a topic he was clearly enthusiastic about. "These here are only the seedlings of what would grow into a full movement would revolutionize the wizardry of art. As you can gather from the portraits from the more recent times, painters have become more adept at animating the illusion of life."

The ghost stopped for a moment and turned to face the portrait of a poised lady whose painter had done great care to capture her rosy cheeks and somber expression.

"But yet," said Nick, a little sadly, "No magic can ever truly replicate life. No picture, no amount of magic could ever capture her equanimous temperament and her charming wit that were adored by many—including I."

Her eyes, which had been focused on Nick, swiveled to meet mine. It was hard to describe it. Maybe it was my imagination, or from my own desperation of human empathy. I felt _it_, whatever _it_ was or could be defined by; a sense of connection that spanned across time— across dimensions. I knew she could perceive her surroundings—she could see me.

"Did she—"

"No," said Nick with a heavy sigh, "Eleanor was not afraid like I was; she chose to move on."

I stared at him blankly.

"It's a bloody and nausea-inducing tale, but let me put it in song." The ghost of Gryffindor parted his lips and even though I had avoided another demonstration of his nearly severed head my poor ears did not anticipate his searing falsetto:

"_It was a mistake any wizard could make  
Who was tired and caught on the hop  
One piffling error, and then, to my terror,  
I found myself facing the chop.  
Alas for the eve when I met Lady Grieve  
A-strolling the park in the dusk!  
She was of the belief I could straighten her teeth  
Next moment she'd sprouted a—"_

"It's alright, you can spare me the gruesome tale—not that you don't have a beautiful singing voice," I cut him off, tenderly fingering my ruptured eardrums. Geez, somebody must have replaced his voice box with a Chihuahua that had been speared through the gut. "What do you mean, by choosing to move on?"

"I was in theatre in my boyhood years." Nick threw his chest out proudly. "But to your question—Ellie, bless her sweet little soul, bit the Billywig a few years to my execution's prior. After my near decapitation, she asked me if I was ready to join her and well, judging by my current state, you can guess what path I chose."

Nick's bitter smile induced a twinge in my stomach. "Do you ever regret it?"

"Not a day goes by where I don't ask myself: would I have chosen differently? Four hundred years, you know, is a long time to ruminate over such an indelible decision—especially one so brashly due to a juvenile fear." Nearly Headless Nick's expression grew contemplative. "Sometimes, when watching the wizarding world change and grow while I remain stagnant, a moribund figure from a history long rendered irrelevant… "

I looked at my own hands. I never thought out of all the people whom I could relate to most, it would be with a Four-hundred year old ghost. Tracing the veins with my fingers, I could still very much feel the blood, fueled by a beating pulse, that still pumped traitorously. My palms had been etched with lines, markings that defined the terrain of my hand—my choices, my path, my life.

I wondered, too, when I would be ready to move on.

* * *

Divination was probably the only class that I wasn't getting majorly Troll'd in, only because we hadn't done anything that required wandwork. A monotonous routine had been quickly established: record nightly one's dreams, swap entries every week, and predict a peer's future—which, in most cases, entailed death. Call me backward, but in the midst of the mind-bending oddities that occurred in the castle, the normality of the class was almost… relaxing.

I glanced anxiously at the empty seat next to mine where, Zephyrus Castwell, a Hufflepuff, was supposed to be.

Not a few moments later, a lean, dark-haired teenage boy removed his satchel from the slope of his bony shoulder and hung it by the crest of Zephyrus' chair.

"Hello."

I suppressed a squeak.

"Wh-where's Zephyr?"

Tom Riddle's spindly fingers briefly teased the frame of the chair. He smiled at me. "He won't be joining us."

In one confident, fluid motion, he sidled next to me. As he flipped through the compartments of his satchel, his neatly combed coils of hair devolved into a swarming mass of tentacles. Instead of pulling out a chainsaw or a vat of sulfuric acid, he produced an innocuous notebook. He even took time to smooth back his hair and the wrinkles of his uniform before flashing me another pleasant smile.

"Winter's a touch late this year, wouldn't you say?"

I stared suspiciously at where he dug his hand into his pocket, expecting at the very least for the rectangular school supply to resurrect and bite off my head. Gripping the edge of the table to the point where my fingernails turned white, I bit back what would've been a violent demonstration of: _OKAY, SO YOU'VE IGNORED ME FOR A WEEK AND __**NOW**__ YOU WANNA SHARE JOURNALS AND ACT LIKE NOTHING'S HAPPENED?_

Raising a brow at my immobilized state, Riddle edged the notebook a couple inches closer with a delicate push of his fingertip. "Shall we?"

Seriously, it was so ridiculously unfair how he could make me dissolve by his glare but mine had no effect on him at all.

"I'm sorry!" I blurted out. "Look, if you're going to get me, can't you get me already? I can't take it anymore."

Riddle seemed so genuinely confused I wanted to poke his eye with my pointed quill just to get a reaction from him. "Pardon?"

"You know, that time when we—when I—you know…" I couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing.

Gah, we were actually about to have a decent, normal exchange! And then I just had go ruin everything.

His face revealed nothing, holding that same blank look that so well suited his genteel features. "Sorry, I haven't the faintest recollection."

Coughing to hide my mortification, I said gruffly, "Never mind."

Relief flooded through me, like that feeling when you flush the toilet and watch the fruits of your anal labor go down the pipes. It was just a crazy dream. A hallucination that was caused by Dumbledore's crazy tea.

"Something wrong?"

The back of his hand was tenderly placed across my cheek like he was trying to feel me up for a fever.

"NO!" I slapped his hand away and scooted myself a good feet away from him. I shuffled my dream journal and his. "Let's just get this over with."

A millisecond of a grin flitted across his face—just for a second, he looked a normal teenage boy. "I thought perhaps you may have had something on your face."

"Har-har. You're so full of originality, really."

Even though I, erected his dream journal upright to put up a perpidicular barrier between me, I couldn't resist peeking at him from the corner of his eye.

Disaffected by the rebuff, Riddle shrugged somewhat smugly, flipped open my dream journal adjacent his own roll of parchment, and picked up his white quill. The tremors were coming back with a whole other bunch of physical symptoms and inner body chemical reactions I couldn't diagnose or have words for. It felt… mushy.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Riddle like the first time I met him... like the time when his eyes glazed red and he swore to me that I would pay for my disrepect... or like the time when he shoved me to a wall and threatened to kill me... it was all a hazy blur... time had molded a new Riddle and blurred out his unflattering idiosyncrasies... like the feel of his tender hand on my cheek... his sensitive eyes filled with concern...

_Ack!_ I snapped my eyes open to banish the sinful thought I was trying to get rid of in the first place. I stole another peek at Riddle, neck craned over the table and fully immersed in his work. I wanted to thwack the back of his head for doing this to me—and he didn't even do anything, so how could I make that justifiable?

I took a deep breath, laid Riddle's dream journal flat on the desk, and proceeded to take out a quill and parchment of my own.

_I am standing on top of a elevated pyramid, which is bordered by a river, looking down the repugnant mudbloods who are inclining to me..._

"What is…this?" His voice was quiet. Very quiet.

My heart skipped a beat. "My dream journal."

"I know that," Riddle spat, leafing through the pages of the notebook with disdain. He was practically frothing at the mouth. "What is this... this... this rubbish! September eighteenth, a pink-purple polka dotted cow kept trying to steal my blueberry muffin. September nineteenth, a triple headed ice cream asked me for directions to Mulberry Street. Sept—"

"Okay, okay," I said, a bit sourly. "You've made your point. But dreams are unpredictable. I can't control what I dream just to make you happy."

"There's nothing in the book about polka-dotted cows or triple-headed ice creams." Riddle scowled, flipping through _The Dream Oracle_. To be honest, what he was reading was scribbled five minutes before the class started. Besides, it was more likely to find such aforementioned dream subjects in the reference book than re-occuring conversations with Furbies, Barbies, and Dumbledores.

I waved my hand casually. "Oh, just say that the cow and the ice cream are a symbol of my untimely death or something. Professor Conman loves that sort of stuff. Besides, the only thing the Dream Oracle predicts is death, so you can't go wrong there."

"True," mumbled Riddle. His irritation subsided as quickly as it surfaced, replaced by placid contemplation.

_….their countenances are blurred, indistinct, indiscernible, but they are chanting, acknowledging my superiority. And in particular, which I recall in great detail, a girl with vivid features..._

"Besides," I found myself saying, "this future predicting hogwash doesn't even work. Dreams are the process of our brain unwinding while our body's at rest."

Riddle flicked his eyes back at me, appearing somewhat intrigued. "I beg to differ."

His tone remained courteous, but controlled, nuanced with a tantalizing obstinacy.

I should have heeded the warning, but I couldn't stop. "You know why _The Dream Oracle_ only predicts death? Everybody dies. By telling you you're gonna die with some vague words it'll always work because it happens anyway."

"You're wrong."

The fingers tightened hold on the my dream journal, so tightly it was practically gasping for breath under the vice-like grip. Even though Riddle was staring straight at me, I couldn't be sure if he was telling me or telling himself.

I leaned closer and grinned. I couldn't believe I didn't notice it before. "Is that a hair hanging from your nostril?"

His hand instinctively shot up to his nose. He put it back down and repressed a scowl. "How... perspicuous of you to notice."

I almost laughed out loud in relief, but I swallowed it. Now this was the Riddle I knew best, the one who would use big words to sound condescending.

"Right." I nodded, grinning at him even though he didn't return it. "I know what that means."

"Hmph." With a shrug he placed a hypothetical wall between us and went back to work, jotting something mysterious on that parchment.

_I am standing on top of a elevated pyramid, which is bordered by a river, looking down the repugnant mudbloods who are inclining to me ….their countenances are blurred, indistinct, indiscernible, but they are chanting, acknowledging my superiority. And in particular, which I recall in great detail, a girl with vivid features. She crawls up the steps one bye one, on all fours. She begs for forgiveness and then licks my shoe._

Woah. Back up.

"You _so_ did not dream that."

Riddle looked back up at me.

"Hmmm? But I cannot control what I dream," he echoed sententiously, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. "You know, I think it portrays the future quite accurately."

"Dreams are only reflections of our unconscious desires," I countered, resisting the urge. This had to be some sick parody of something I wasn't getting. "This is just a sick fantasy of yours."

"Really." That fact that he was now getting amusement out of me was not cool.

"Yes so." I stuck out my chin. "Want my analysis?"

Riddle made no reply. With a graceful tip of his shoe, he tilted the chair backwards. His left arm was sprawled over the crest of the chair; the other resting on his thigh. He angled his head, his gaze trained on mine, a light smile tracing his lips.

"The pyramid of steps is a metaphor for your desire to climb to the top of society, to be recognized. The river is symbolic of your journey for eternal life. And the girl is probably some random chick you happen to have a sick fetish for at the moment. Sound anything like you?" I ended in a huff.

He blinked twice and laughed. "Not at all."

* * *

_Who's tapping on my shoulder?_ I half-wondered groggily (the other half was still clinging onto the comforting feel of linen against my cheek).

"Hnngh." Thinking it was Valetta or the Stupid Girls or something, I pulled the sheets over my head and nested myself deeper in the bed. "Weekend. No school."

When the poking didn't stop, I opened my eye half a slit and when I saw the severed hand suspended in mid air I screamed. It dropped off a roll of parchment in my lap and starting diving for my pockets.

"Argh! Stop it—get off—I don't have any money!"

Clumsily hobbling around the bed, I tried to dodge the flurried assault utilizing the ineffective pillow a makeshift flyswatter. The Thing was persistent! When it finally retreated I thought it was going to finally leave me alone but instead, it hovered over the bedside's dresser and pillaged the most valuable thing on hand (pun intended)—the key necklace.

"Don't you _dare._" I growled, my nails sinking into the soft pillow. "You put that down right now."

I chucked my pillow at it, which missed by, oh, ten feet. The hand even took the time to flip me off before flying out of the dormitory entrance.

_That Thing… it just robbed me!_ I let out a huff that unsettled at the loose hairs flopping about my face. Debating whether to give chase or just go to sleep, eventually my focus naturally strayed over to the roll of parchment, which I unrolled to reveal the elegant, slanted cursive message:

_Please see me (preferably immediately) upon acquirement of this letter._

_Sincerely, Your Transfiguration Professor,_

_Albus P.W.B Dumbledore_

I squinted at the jumble of letters between Albus and Dumbledore. What did that even stand for, anyway? Poogley-Woogley-Bear? Sleep tempted me for a moment, but the sunlight's warmth searing through the windows signaled that it was already midday.

_I've probably already missed breakfast_, I thought regretfully. I slunk back into the folds of the bed with intent to put off Dumbledore's request until he decided to send me more severed body parts to coerce me out of my lazy slump.

Besides the necklace being my key to Hogwarts (har-har Dumbledore, you're _so_ clever), it hadn't really done anything for me. Dumbledore said it'd help me in some way, but he didn't mention any specifics so I basically wasted my entire week looking for some way to activate its magical ability but it appeared to be just—_normal_.

"Why am I getting all worked up about this anyway?" I grumbled out loud, pawing around the white linen.

Even though the necklace didn't pull off any deus ex machina, it was still something I wanted to depend on; it was like a failsafe that comforted me, and now that it was gone, what did I have to cling onto to? What would Dumbledore say to me?

_How else am I supposed to metaphorically unravel my mind now?_ I wondered in my head.

I could totally see Dumbledore saying something cryptic yet utterly cliché like, _The key, Jean, has always resonated within you._

The he would start rummaging through his pocket again, while I would retort, _Then why did you make such a big deal about it in the first place like it was the second coming or something?_

_Your usage of metaphors and similes, _Dumbledore would pull out a light and cigarette and start puffing away, _ultimately inhibits your understanding._

_So what if I like to use metaphors and similes,_ I'd say defensively, trying to disperse the smoke by waving it away. _It's convenient and it gets the point across._

_Do you know why?_ Dumbledore's eyes would twinkle in that brilliance that could only be understood by him.

_Because it's kind of hard to describe a situation to another person who wasn't there without using some sort of imagery or comparison for the audience to go by._

_Precisely,_ Dumbledore would nod emphatically, _We use similes and metaphors because we lack the words to define a subject, which is derived from our own lack of understanding of the topic. By building an illusory correlational bridge, it results in a circumlocutory definition which embellishes the concept__—_ yet from a limited view.

I could pretty much imagine Dumbledore sighing in my head, _Rhetorical strategy is man's greatest art, but at the same time, man's greatest shortcoming in his quest to understand and define everything._

_You know, _I'd say, _this is probably the most profound conversation we've had so far, but it's never happened._

Dumbledore would laugh and say, _The question is, Jean, am I ultimately a metaphor, fabricated from your imagination because you cannot bear the idea that you are alone?_

I promptly pulled myself out of bed and got dressed, abruptly ending the nonexistent conversation before he could say anything else that might mean something.

* * *

_Quick Author's Note: I decided to split the 8000 word beast into two chapters so as to not to kill your attention span. The second part should be coming soon shortly. Thank you for reading; have a nice day!_


	6. Pushing Up Daisies

In the world of Harry Potter, when you failed, they didn't just give you an F. You got a big, fat Troll moonwalking across your transfiguration essay that you spent like three hours on and deprived yourself of precious sleep for. I used the parchment to cover up my face, partly because I was so embarrassed and I didn't want to see Dumbledore's disappointed face.

"Yeah, I know," I said, glancing over the red markings over my handiwork, "I'm a hopeless case. I know I'm the dumbest Ravenclaw to ever grace Hogwarts and I've accepted myself for who I am, so it's all good."

Dumbledore sighed. "What is your intuitive understanding of magic?"

I blinked. "About the essay, I can explain—"

"Answer the question."

His authoritative tone had no room for compromise. The transfiguration classroom was silent as Dumbledore and I were the only people in the room, which was quite intimidating. Right. It was a back-to-square-one kind of question—like math. In order to solve matrices, one had to learn how to multiply first—except in the wizarding world, I was like a cavemen still trying to scribble something coherent with a sharp rock for a wand.

"Um—ah—well, a wizard waves a wand and then…" I rocked my feet back and forth with deliberation, "…stuff happens."

I dared myself to peek over the parchment. His composure only held for a fraction of a second before he totally lost it. I mean, he tried to be discreet and all by placing his hand over his forehead to cover his face, but he couldn't suppress the chortles. I didn't know whether to be insulted for bewildered. I waited for a minute because it seemed like he wasn't the type of teacher normally to laugh so hard his shoulders were quaking, but there was only so much I humiliation I could take.

"Uh, Professor? You okay?"

"Pardon me," said Dumbledore, wiping the tears from his eyes, "it's just that, in all my years of teaching, I have yet to hear a more frank reply. You seem to view magic as a muggle would, like a sort of panacea; of which anything can be accomplished, and that everything can be fixed by simple a wave of the wand."

"It's not?" He had just basically summarized how I thought magic worked, except, you know, without sounding like a total dumbass.

Dumbledore smiled down upon me, the corner of his eyes crinkling. "Far from it, child. There is much of this arcane art we have yet to uncover; yet the more we learn, the more there is left to be discovered."

I was staring at one of Dumbledore's contraptions—a minature elliptical wheel that whirred in a perpetual cycle, trapped in the motion because of the momentum set by its asymmetrical design. "Then what's the point of trying to learn magic if we can never know everything?"

"The journey may seem futile perhaps; however, to some the study of magic is not about knowing everything reaching the end, but more about satisfying the inner calling that runs in every young, magic-bearing being."

Dumbledore spoke very evenly like he was bored, but his blue eyes, aflame with brilliance, bored into mine and ignited a curiosity within myself that I had never felt before. For the first time, I actually felt interested in learning more about magic.

"As a Hogwarts teacher, I am obligated to follow the O.W.L curriculum, but I have always personally believe what the ministry delegates is not enough. Students do not truly learn to pursue the art; instead, the focus lies with parroting spells from textbooks. The intricacies of magic potential within the student lay unexplored, untouched, and untapped. We are not able to grow, individually and as a society, for boundaries are not pushed."

"What sort of boundaries?"

Dumbledore circumvented his desk, his bony fingers trailing the edges of his many books. "Certain laws ground reality—the progression of magic depends on our ability to find ways to loophole them."

Voldermort's voice seem to pop in my head on cue. _I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed. _A pleasant quiver tickled my spine. I steadied my trembling hands.

"But these laws that you speak of—can they be broken?"

Dumbledore hesitated. "To some extent, but not without repercussive damage to the wand bearer."

A gargantuan invisible elephant with the ability to shut people up stampeded into the room. As much sociopathic and questionably evil Riddle was, there was always that drive, that calling, that ambition to accomplish great things—and to some eyes, terrible things. I started to feel jealous. I never knew what it was like to be passionate about something. I never had that curiosity that pushed me to find answers. I was apathetic about everything—life, friendship, and magic.

Maybe that was what I needed to change about myself. Maybe I needed to find my purpose.

"Onto the matter at hand, Jean," Dumbledore continued, "Judging by your essay that you turned in, it seems I must take a different approach to help you understand magic better. Therefore, I am going to take a slightly different approach given your"—he deliberately paused for dramatic affect—"_unique_ circumstances."

He is omniscient gaze was so much like the older Dumbledore it made me squirm in my seat. It was like he knew he knew exactly what those "unique circumstances" were, even though I knew there was no way he could know I came from a reality where this reality was fictional.

"You will invent a spell."

I overturned my palms when he didn't continue. "And?"

"That's it."

I squinted my eyes at him. It sounded so simple—too simple. This was Dumbledore. There had to be a catch. "What sort of task do you want me to perform—move mountains, bring the dead back to life?"

"Anything."

"But I can't do magic," I bleated. "When I wave a wand, nothing happens."

"I'm sure you will surprise yourself." Dumbledore beamed at me.

"How long do I have?"

His smile only grew. "As long as it takes."

Why, oh why, must Dumbledore always have that cryptic and vague character trait present in all versions of himself? I almost banged my forehead against the desk. _Well,_ I reasoned,_ if I can make it look like I'm "trying" I can probably get around from doing it._

Dumbledore anticipated, and said otherwise, "You will, however, be updating me on your progress every week."

_Okay, maybe not._ I groaned.

* * *

The moment I stepped out of the transfiguration classroom I ran headfirst into Emily, who bore a crumpet that oozing with a dark, purple boysenberry jam.

"I saw you weren't at breakfast today, and I couldn't find you in your dorm either. I saw your note—I swear, I didn't mean to pry—I thought you might like a bite to eat." She seemed nervous for some reason.

The relationship—if you could call it that—between Emily and me was weird. Even though we often spent mealtimes side-by-side and she always helped me with the workload (without being condescending about my inept ability with magic), we weren't really friends. In fact, our "friendship" was built on this taciturn sort of bond, where she never pestered me about my troubles, but at the same time, I never asked her about her wretched life as muggle-born in Hogwarts either. We both kind of pretended it didn't exist, and all was good.

"Thanks."

I graciously accepted the pastry and chomped on it like a feral raccoon. We started making our way back to the dormitories. Even though she made no intent of asking I felt obliged to fill her in, or maybe I just needed somebody to vent to.

"He completely ripped apart my essay," I lamented, lapping up the crumbs on my palm. "And on top of everything I have to do, he gave me this super stupid project."

Emily's mouth twitched several times and her eyes flitted back and fro before she finally asked tentatively, "What does Professor Dumbledore require?"

I stared wistfully at my sticky fingers. "I have to come up with a spell or something."

"Of what sort?"

"Dunno. He didn't specify."

"Well, he has his reasons." My muggle-born companion patted my shoulder. "He must regard you as worthy, otherwise he wouldn't have entrusted you with such a special task."

I rolled my eyes, which was totally immature of me but I couldn't help it. Seriously, Harry Potter and just about everybody who had met him had blind trust in Dumbledore without once questioning his motives. Was I the only person who saw his duplicity and ability to manipulate teens as creepy?

"It's completely unfair. He's torturing me, that's what it's doing," I snapped. I knew I was targeting my anger and arguing with the wrong person, but I didn't want to deal with my problems the adult way just yet. "He _knows_ I can't do magic, I know I can't do magic, and just the entire school knows I can't do magic. Why won't he just give up on me already? Yet he's still making me try even though I'll just fail, like I always do."

Emily's eyes flitted rapidly as she searched the right words to say—because even she couldn't deny it. "Nobody was able to make the teacup dance anyway in Charms."

I forced a smile to let her know her attempts to make me feel better were appreciated, even though they were about as effective as a search to find the other missing sock amidst a pile of laundry.

"Well, my teacup didn't dance. At least everybody else's sort of wiggled. Mine jumped off the table." I started grinning, even though it wasn't funny. "I'm telling you, he's completely and totally out to get me."

Her eyes widened a little. "You—you shouldn't say such things about Professor Dumbledore like that; he's a great wizard, the best of the best. I'm sure he's only trying to help."

"Yeah, well—"

"Jean, darling!"

Valetta and her group of people approached me. Actually, to be more accurate, it was Valetta and the two Stupid Girls, along with three other guys whose faces I'd seen in classes but never bothered to place their names.

"We were just heading our way to Hogsmeade—you ought to join us!"

I noticed that the guys were holding the girls' satchels and coats—like a date or something. Feeling my face heat up, I briefly wondered if Riddle was taking anybody to Hogsmeade.

_Ack! Stop that!_ I mentally chided myself._ Why are you thinking about this at a totally inappropriate moment!_

I cleared my throat. "No, that's okay."

"Are you sure? You don't want to associate yourself with the likes of them mudbloods." Valetta said, with a haughty nod in Emily's direction.

I couldn't bring myself to speak. I cast a quick glance at Emily for her approval, who was deliberately averting the whole situation by looking away.

"The whole castle's going to be filled with nobody but mudbloods this weekend; trust us, you'd much rather be in Hogsmeade," said the guy who had Stupid Girl No. 2's coat draped over his arm.

I took a step back, suddenly feeling cornered. "I-I'm up to my eyeballs in schoolwork."

"That's too bad," Stupid Girl No. 1 simpered. "Next time, perhaps?"

"Um, sure, I guess?"

The group left us after that, but it took a long spell before Emily and I started moving again. The pastry I had eaten earlier was now eating me. I was a horrible person. The worst of the worst. I deserved her condemnation but she remained silent. I didn't have the guts to bring up what had just happened and she didn't call me out for it. She was never going to talk to me after this. Why couldn't I say anything?

"She wasn't always like that, you know." Emily's voice was low. Her neck was bent so I couldn't see her face properly. "She and I used to be best friends."

I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say except, "Whuh?"

"Valetta." She turned to face me fully and let out a bitter parody of a laugh when she saw my expression. "I know, I wouldn't believe it myself either. We used to do everything together. Study for exams, practice spells on each other, plait each other's hair… and she used to stick up for me when the purebloods gave me a hard time."

I gaped at her. There was no way the snooty girl we had just encountered could be the same person.

"What happened?" I finally managed.

"At first I thought it was when she started seeing Oswerth, that Slytherin, but I think it was earlier," she bit her lip, reluctant to let go of what seemed to be some sort of a terrible secret, "When we came back on the Hogwarts express for our fourth year, something about her was different. Off. She wouldn't tell me anything and insisted she was fine, but…"

Her doleful eyes searched me, almost pleadingly, as if I could come up with an answer. It was my turn to avoid her gaze.

We both continued walking down the hallway noncommittally as if the whole encounter and following conversation had never happened. However, the memory still burned in my mind, and I wondered if there was more to the shallow persona Valetta had painted on her face.

* * *

"Oh-ho!" For not the first time that evening, Slughorn was reduced to a paroxysm of giggles. "That's a good one! I must remember to save that sometime next time I encounter witty wizard as yourself!"

The dried woodlouse grubs rattled in the marble mortar as the echoes of Slughorn's laugh reverberated through the room. I picked up a pestle and grounded my teeth as I reduced the remnants of the organism into smithereens.

_No one should have to endure this._

But it wasn't as if I was here of my own volition, but the other alternative was to spend the dinner at the Great Hall where I would have to face Emily after today's encounter, which I couldn't bring myself to do either. The rest of the class had already begin distilling the _Braveria_ potion, but I was still stuck trying to mix the ingredients properly.

I sniffed. The dank dungeons reeked from decades of students mixing smelly potions, and probably from the body count of prisoners that had been tortured here during the medieval times too.

_But_, I growled inwardly, _why is HE here?_

So. What the future Dark Lord spent his evenings while everybody else was at the Great Hall eating dinner—not that I had ever consciously looked for him, that is. He romanced his potions professor with jokes. I snickered. What a loser. Still, I did kind of feel sorry for him that he didn't have any friends (his groupies didn't count) so he had to spend time with Slughorn, but not sorry enough because I was stuck here too.

From all the way in the other corner of the room, I glared at the back of the Riddle's head. He had softened up the fat walrus until he had been transfigured into a giggling bouncy ball.

It was killing me, the way those two were huddled at his desk like two best chumps at a tavern. Mr. Perfect Prefect boy was as funny was getting your funny bone jabbed several times with a butter knife. _What could he possibly have said that was so funny?_ I seethed.

_Whatever. I don't care. Focus, Jean._ I squinted in at the textbook by the candlelight. Seriously, how come people here could turn quills into pheasants and make textbooks fly, but they still used freaking candles like it was the middle ages? I couldn't be sure, but I think the directions read something like: _measure and add the powdered woodlouse precisely; more than a pinch of a pixie, but less than a handful of a horklump_.

That probably meant like three tablespoons, right? I dumped the contents of the grounded worms into the potion, and stirred in a manner of "a jinxed sphinx" (another witty phrase from our potions textbook). At first it was a clear, aqueous solution and I inwardly cheered because I was finally getting it right. Then Slughorn erupted into laugher again, and the color of my potion turned into putrid black that reflected the hateful thoughts had been brewing in the dark recesses of my mind the entire evening.

_It's all Riddle's fault. Doesn't he have anything better to do? Like say, oh perhaps torture someone else?_

Okay, so it wasn't, maybe not directly, but blaming him gave me the self-control to stop myself from dumping the concoction over his stupid head. Instead, I calmly picked up the cauldron, stalked to the back of the room, and dumped the liquid into a wastebasket. I swear the cylindrical can gurgled as it flushed away yet another failure of my creation into nonexistence.

Trying to appear as non-intrusive as possible, I made my way to Slughorn and his favorite student.

"Professor, sir—I was hoping, if it's not too much trouble to ask, that is—that perhaps—"

Riddle sounded hesitant. That was new one for him. I raised my brows, impressed.

"Hold that thought." Slughorn raised a finger and looked over Riddle's shoulder.

Riddle turned around and glanced at me—whether with annoyance because I had interrupted something important or a obligatory curiosity, I couldn't really tell in the abysmal lighting. I swallowed any residual rancorous thoughts I had about him less than a minute ago. I tried not to look at his face and eyed Slughorn directly, whose lip as quivering as if he was stifling yet another laugh.

I know it was completely paranoid to assume so, but I had the weirdest feeling they had been laughing at me.

"I'm done for tonight."

"Ah," said Slughorn, clicked his tongue. "Any luck with _Braveria_?"

"Oh, I've made great progress," I said, smiling, "Thanks for sacrificing your free hours so I could catch up. I think I'll clean up my station now, curfew calls—"

"My my, is it that late already?" Slughorn pulled out a flat, golden disk from his breast pocket. Its beaded chain swung madly against his gaudy striped suit. "How time flies! Well, I shan't delay any longer. Here, allow me—"

With a flick of his wand, the supplies I had been working with—the brass scales, cauldron, mortar and pestle, and the rest of the ingredients—levitated and floated themselves back to the shelves.

"Now off you go, both of you! I don't want to keep you both locked here in this unwizardly hour; and don't protest, Tom, I know you don't enjoy my company that much."

"Of course I do," Riddle replied, "Your knowledge of the upper class and of magic is most engaging for a socially influential wizard as yourself."

"Ah, you never miss an opportunity to flatter me, don't you, my dear boy," Slughorn chuckled yet again. "I suppose I'll accept it this time with gratitude... you'll go far, with that sweet tongue of yours. Speaking of sweets, be sure to get me some of that crystallized pineapple you've been raving about, won't you?"

Riddle, that kiss-up, actually _bowed._ "Anything for my favorite professor."

* * *

I was completely unnerved. No matter how fast I walked, I could hear Riddle's low hum right directly behind my ears. I couldn't exactly run, because he would know I was trying to flee and then he would know I was scared of him. Which I wasn't.

When I finally couldn't take it anymore, I turned around and hissed, "Stop following me."

"The Slytherin common rooms are in this direction, although it is quite flattering you thought that." Whether he was lying or not his light smile betrayed nothing.

Dark corridor? Check. Alone with Riddle? Bingo. No witnesses? Affirmative. Stomach ulcer forming? You called it. This was like a terrible replay of those cheesy comedy romance movies that insisted on filling my TV channel. Except that, you know, it was my life. And Riddle was as romantic as foot fungus and about as funny as… well I've already used the funny bone metaphor so I won't repeat it again.

It was silent as the foreboding as the moment in a horror movie before the heroine is yet, again, opening the door that the monster was hiding behind. The crackle of the firelit torches on the side of the walls even seemed to whisper of my imminent doom. I wiped my sweaty palms on the strap of my satchel and thought of something pleasant and hamrless to say and that wouldn't trigger his urge to kill me.

_Is he going to do it? Is he going to do it now?_

"Well," said Riddle, stopping in his tracks in front of a forked path, "I believe this is where we part ways." He slightly inclined his head. "Have a good evening."

"Is that it?" I finally managed to rasped. "I'm sorry. I really am…"

_Stop. You're doing it again. Shut up. Shut up now before he decides to unleash his wrath on you._

"I mean, we can be friends—I don't mind—"

Ugh, why couldn't I stop babbling?

Riddle's eye sockets were engulfed in the shadow of his brows so that it was difficult to read his face. "Although your effusive display of emotion is most touching, we have not known each other long enough to call ourselves… _friends_. Thus, you have nothing to apologize for."

There. That was it. That slight inflection of his pleasant tone when he uttered the word _friends_, like the very idea nauseated him. I was doomed. Cremated and buried.

"I—" I started to say, and this time I finally gained the ability to control myself. "Good night, then."

Riddle inclined his head politely and turned right.

I made my way to the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room. There was definitely something wrong with me. What happened to the Jean I knew? Since when did I when did I transform from a person who could stand up to him into another of his simpering groupies?

Everything changed after I had seen a glimpse of what Riddle truly hid behind that handsome, friendless orphan boy guise.

_No._ I shook my head. I couldn't even be sure it had even happened in the first place. After all, there was something oddly suspicious of how insistent Dumbledore was about serving his tea. Maybe it caused a hallucination. It was late at night, too. Maybe it had been just a dream. In any case, it was all an incoherent blur. I had suppressed it, and which now I regretted because I couldn't differentiate reality from imagination anymore.

My stupid tendency to overthink and overanalyze everything was going to haunt me. I took a deep breath. _Maybe, just maybe it was time for me to turn a new leaf. _

"How does one counter a counter-jinx?" inquired the bronze eagle knocker.

"Uh, by casting another jinx?"

"Unworthy answer. Re-contemplate your response, and try again in an hour."

"COME ON!"

* * *

The day seemed deceptively warm; the sunlight blared on the open field, but that pre-winter breeze bit at the fingertips of unsuspecting travelers. The fifth years were huddled in a group for warmth, and watched Professor Kettleburn intently.

"Your assignment is to cultivate, and ultimately hatch a Cockatrice egg. These here"—he held up with his good arm a purple egg—"have low tolerance for magic, so if you try to cut corners you will fail this assignment faster than a starving Swedish Short-Snout."

I gulped as Kettleburn eyeballed us with his blazing golden irises, his aquiline nose pointing at each and every one of us accusingly. Even though Professor Kettleburn's gait was marred by a limp, and where his left forearm should have been there was a stub, he carried himself with the confidence of a war veteran that scared me.

"Now Hermes, if you will be a dear, and distribute them for me?"

A floating human hand dropped down from a nearby tree. It was the thief who raided my dresser! The hand gave him thumbs up and floated to and float, handing each student their egg.

"That thing has a name?" I whispered conspiratorily to Emily. "Who keeps a hand as a pet, anyway?"

"It is a bit eccentric," my muggle-born companion conceded, "but Hermes is actually quite, um, sweet. He runs errands for the castle and is always more than willing to be a helping hand."

Har har. So punny. I glowered at the reanimated human part, reviving my avowed vengeance. It seemed to recognize me, for it chucked the egg at me carelessly and I almost dropped it.

"Oi you lot!" The professor immediately set out to apprehend the Slytherins, who were levitating the eggs and sparring them against each other. "Those weren't easy to come by, you know!"

"Did you know that cockatrices have to mate three times between each egg laying session? He probably stole those eggs while they were in mid-shag," said a Hufflepuff boy near us. "He probably gets off on that sort of thing."

Emily looked scandalized. "Simon!"

The Hufflepuff kid shot her a saucy grin. I busied myself with examining my egg, which pulsated between my fingers. I had this odd feeling I had just intruded on an intimate exchange. It was the first time I had seen her smile.

* * *

Grinning, I oh so carefully pried opened the panel door. There was only one way in and out of the greenhouse. I had Hermes cornered.

Unfortunately, my plans to trap the bewitched appendage flew out the window when a careless footstep snapped a stray twig. Hermes, who was scavenging for among the pots, froze only for a moment before he made a go for it.

"Dammit, get back here!" I shouted, chasing it around the rectangule, long table, ultimately running in circles—or rather, rectangles. It didn't take long before I was doubled over and wheezing in the saturated heat of the room. When Hermes he noticed I had stopped chasing him, he flew under the table.

I dropped to the floor on my knees, and re-arranged my features to appear as non-threatening as possible.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you," I gasped, trying not to sound too desperate, "I'm sorry I didn't have a tip for you, but I really kind of need that necklace."

The tendons that connected the knuckles tensed, but Hermes stayed still.

I tried the guilt trip. "It's wrong to take something that's not yours, you know. What would Professor Kettleburn think if he knew you were engaging in first-hand thievery?"

The hand twitched, a possible sign of guilt and it looked like it was going to work until…

…he flipped me off. Again.

"That's _real_ mature!" I called after Hermes as it scuttered away like a beetle. As the door swung open, Hermes took to his advantage and adroitly maneuvered between the pillars of legs and fled the greenhouse.

_I'll have to hunt for him another time, then._ Herbology was due to start any minute. Gripping the edges of the table, I clumsily got up, and when my line of vision rose to the just above the table extended above the table my heart temporarily stopped beating.

The legs belonged to a group of Slytherin boys donned in their impeccably ironed uniforms. They looked like they were from the same breed—they all had the same distinctly pointed noses that sloped downwards, that stupid look super-glued in their cross-eyed gaze, and that nasty hair had has been slicked back with oil. And who else but would be leading the sheep?

Riddle's confident stride marked him as the alpha figure, but it wasn't just that. He shared almost no physical traits with the rest of his comrades. Maybe he liked to surround himself with ugly people so he could feel better about himself. The thought amused me.

_Just remain inconspicuous and maybe they won't notice you_, I told myself, but they approached closer and closer until the group halted at an arm's length.

"Transfer student," said this greasy-haired blonde kid to the left of Riddle. He stuck out his chin. "You're in our spot."

"Now, Malfoy," said Riddle, smiling lightly, "That's no way to treat a fellow pureblood."

_Fellow pureblood?_ Somethere in my brain, a vessel burst. Seriously, what was this kid playing at? His blood was nowhere near "pure", as clearly evidenced by his looks that had not been disfigured by generations of inbreeding.

The kid to the Riddle's right snorted. "Hardly acts like one though. Reeks of mudblood."

The acute ridge of the table's edge pressed against my back. _Shit._ The semi-circle formed by Riddle and his group drew closer. A tell-tale bead of sweat trickled down my temple.

"You need to learn how to make proper friends around here, transfer student. You don't want people to think you're a blood traitor, do you?"

I shook my head vehemently. What would they do to me if they knew if I wasn't not even muggle-born, but just a normal person?

"You know, Riddle here'd be glad to… _educate_ you." Malfoy's wolfish grin was suggestive in ways I didn't even want to imagine.

The boys snickered, their disgusting faces contorting. Riddle shot Malfoy a super pissy glare that immediately reduced his confidence to a dog with its tail between its legs. The other boys heeded the warning and immediately sobered up.

"You know what," I said, "It's no problem, I can move—I'm don't want any trouble…"

"Nonsense." Riddle grabbed my forearm just as I was going to make a run for it. "Let me apologize on my colleague's behalf; he can be a bit forward at times. We wish to be nothing but hospitable. _Stay_."

I glanced back and fro between Riddle's ready grip and his face. His searching eyes rested on mine—ugh, why was he so handsome? The imploration was hard to refute—and was I in a position where I really had a choice, anyway?

I guess he took my silence as a yes. With little jerks of his head, he motioned for the group to disperse and they filled their assigned slots. So I ended up being sandwiched between Riddle and that blonde kid, Malfoy, trying not to focus on Riddle's fingers encased around my upper arm. The rest of the students eventually filed in; some glanced warily at the odd sight of a tiny girl in Ravenclaw among the group of Slytherin purists. Emily mouthed at me, _What are you doing?_ as she also took her spot. And Valetta positively beamed at me.

I mentally facepalmed myself and made a mental note to clarify to her later that her silly notion of him and I being romantically involved was never going to happen.

"So," I said, drumming my fingers on the edge of the table, "I see you clipped that nose hair."

Riddle's side-eye immediately quelled any other attempts to be conversational.

The storage shed opened with a fantastic _bang!_ A blizzard of papers exploded everywhere, and behind the utter chaos, the disheveled Herbology professor appeared with more which more papers in his arms. Liver spots were sprinkled on his head and what was left of his hair was clustered around his ears like some new breed of fungus. Professor Beery was a weirdo.

"Oh deary me," he mumbled, stumbling around and tripping over his robes, "So much work, so much work—today you'll be gathering the leaves of the Tenaculon plant; the seventh years need it for their hair growth potion…"

As he picked up each paper, three more slid from his arms. The whole class just stared at him.

"…but try to go for the freshest leaves!"

The storage shed door slammed shut, with our lackadaisical professor disappearing behind it. There were a lot of mysteries that surrounded Hogwarts. What Herbery Beery did in that storage room all day and night was one of them that might never be solved. I spent a good ten minutes imagining what exactly he could be doing. Maybe he was one of those undercover rocket scientists that nobody appreciated the brilliance of. Or maybe he was a pervert who jacked off all day.

"Ahem." Riddle clearing his throat brought me back to reality. I stole a glance at him, and he simply raised his brows.

"I was working on it, I swear."

"Clearly," he intoned, sounding bored. He already had his leaves laid out in little neat piles, organized by varying shades of green and by size.

_Perfectionist._ I snorted. I picked up the pair of hedge clippers and stared blankly at the pot in front of me. It was weird. Emily always helped me with everything—if it weren't for her, I would have like died from plant poisoning already on the first day. I glanced around to get a clue of what we were supposed to be doing. The plants seemed pretty docile; people were petting and snipping. In fact, some of the plants seemed to be enjoying it.

I looked at my own plant. It wasn't swaying in the breeze as I originally thought it was, but it was actually flipping breathing. The trunk of the plant deflated and inflated in a steady rhythm, which caused its encircling vines to sway.

"Um, nice Tentaculon," I said, trying to pet it, "I'm just going, um, to cut off this leaf here—"

It freaking _growled_ at me.

I snapped back my hand. Two vines unfurled and wrapped itself around my wrists. Yelping, I dropped the hedge clippers and tried to pry them from my wrists.

"Argh! Get off of me, you stupid—" I wrestled with the plant, but that thing practically had suction cups for leaves.

"You're doing it wrong."

"What?" I panted. "I'm—fine—I totally have this—under control—"

A third vine tried to pick my nose.

"The Tentaculon, like most plants of the Perthius species, survives by establishing a symbiotic relationship with its host plant," said Riddle lazily.

There was a glint of silver and the plant let out a bloodcurdling shriek and immediately untangled itself from me. I rubbed my wrists, which were pink with abrasion, but stopped when I realized he had stuck a pocketknife right in the center of the trunk. A translucent, green syrupy substance trickled from the cut.

"A small incision in the mid-trunk is enough," Riddle said quietly.

"Th-thanks."

Riddle just shrugged and placed his spindly fingers on the handle of the pocketknife. With a perfunctory flick of his wrist, he unwedged the switchblade loose and scraped the blade clean on the edge of the pot. Wait—since when did he carry a knife with him? The kid just kept getting scarier.

I felt a sharp breeze as I watched the plant gasp in its dying moments, like an old man giving one last breath before he finally gave up. I mean, I know it tried to strangle me, but it seemed like an excessive punishment.

"That's almost cruel."

"If the ends meet, should it really matter how it was accomplished?" Riddle said nonchalantly and pocketed his knife. He furrowed his brow at what I think was supposed to be concern but it looked more like he was constipated. "Did you know you've been cut?"

I examined myself and quickly caught a long gash trailing over my left forearm. It took a while for the pink to become red. Odd thing was, I felt nothing. My brain had somehow convinced it was somebody else's arm that had been cut, and the shock caused me to detach my mind from my body.

"Shall I see you to the Hospital Wing?" he asked promptly.

Why was he being so nice to me? "I'm fine. It's only a small cut."

"Cuts from the tenaculon plant are known to have halogenic effects—you ought to have that checked."

I turned to Malfoy, who was on my left. "Hey, do you think you could walk me to the Hospital Wing?"

The funny thing was he even though he faced me, he wasn't looking at me—he was looking _through_ me. His eyes bulged; his lip quivered. His face was devoid of blood. There was no mistaking what was clearly spelled out on his face.

Stark terror.

I turned back to Riddle, who quickly relaxed the muscles on his face from whatever previous expression he had been holding.

"If you'd like," he said, a smile ghosting over his face, "I can keep my hands to myself."

* * *

_Author's Babbles: In regards to Professor Beery and Kettleburn (and Nearly Headless Nick from the previous chapter), I took a lot of liberties with their characterizations, but I tried to base it on what little we do know about them. I hope I get to develop their characters later, and Professor Conman too. Although I have a feeling nobody cares about them. XD  
_


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